Swing the Spinning Step
by aspiringtoeloquence
Summary: A Klaine AU version of the move 'Never Been Kissed' (1999). Kurt Hummel, a copy-editor at The New York Sentinel, just got his big break: the chance to become a reporter, go undercover at a local high school and write an expose. He learns a lot from the people he meets - including a young English teacher with a penchant for bowties - both about high school and about himself.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Swing the Spinning Step  
Author: **mybriefeternity** (a.k.a. aspiringtoeloquence)  
Artist: darrenstop (art post can be found linked on both tumblr and lj - I will add a link to my profile ASAP)  
Rating: PG-13 for language and sexual discussions.  
Betas: **whenidance**, **idoltina**  
Wordcount: ~32,000 total  
Characters/Pairings: Kurt/Blaine [with some background canon pairings]. Rachel Berry, Mercedes Jones, Tina Cohen-Chang, Sam Evans, Finn Hudson (and a couple of blink and you'll miss them cameos).  
Summary: Kurt Hummel, a copy-editor at _The New York Sentinel_, just got his big break: the chance to become a reporter, go undercover at a local high school and write an expose. His job is made a lot more complicated by the people he meets (one in particular, an English teacher with a passion for his subject and a penchant for bowties) and the things he learns - both about high school and about himself.  
Notes/Thanks: My betas, **whenidance (lj)** and **idoltina (lj)**, deserve all the praise and thanks in the world; it's a miracle that either of them are still talking to me (tricking you into beta-ing was the best decision I could have made!) . They helped me carve out this story, and without them it never would have happened. Additional thanks go to **aubreyli (lj)** for working plot through with me _in spite of_ (dot dot dot) and to **whatiknew (lj)** for letting me keysmash in her direction. Thanks also to my wonderful artist, darrenstop on tumblr, who is both endlessly talented and completely lovely! Please go check out her wonderful art for this story linked on my tumblr or livejournal (or her tumblr)!  
Extra Information: As well as being written for the **beyond_dapper** (lj) Blaine Big Bang, this was also posted anonymously as part of the 2012 klaine-endgame challenge. So you can also find the first part (and subsequently all six) over on their livejournal. The only changes made in the interim were the adjustment of a couple of typos and one or two necessary phrase changes. Thank you to the mods of both fests for being so accommodating!

This is a complete retooling of the movie Never Been Kissed (1999). It shouldn't be at all necessary to have seen it in order to read this. Some basic elements from both universes have had to be altered, and for the sake of being true to the characters (this version of them) some minor points from the movie have been removed altogether. In this universe Kurt didn't go to McKinley, and he and a (slightly younger) Finn were the only members of what _might_ have been the Glee Club to go to school in Lima. Other characters may appear in different capacities (and to varying degrees). Title from the song 'Kiss Me' (by Sixpence None the Richer).

* * *

_An unbroken wall of noise._

That's the best phrase Kurt can think of, the one running around in his tired brain as he steps into the stadium. It's packed, and he'd be able to pass that off as the fans out to support their favorite players were it not for the posters. He can only see the ones nearest him, but there's definitely a "Kisses for Kurt!" and "I'll Kiss U!" nearby.

It's surreal, is what it is, absolutely insane, and if you'd told Kurt Hummel a few short months ago that this is where he'd be... well, he would have dismissed you as just another crazy person in a city full of crazy people.

It's also honest. It's true, every second of it, and all Kurt can do is wait and hope that honesty is enough.

* * *

Kurt Hummel was running late. To be more specific, he was running late and making his way as quickly as possible across the floor of _The New York Sentinel_, juggling the latest proofs for the front page of the arts section and page two of the news. When he dropped the latter on a desk near the door and got a groan in reply, he didn't even pause, just muttered a calm, chipper "Learn to use a comma, Peters, and maybe the next one won't look like it's bleeding to death," over his shoulder and kept walking. He handed the pencil from behind his ear to Matt, the sports reporter turning his desk upside-down, and yelled out a thank you to Mike for the dance-school recommendation as he passed Tina's office - Carole loved the anniversary gift, even if his dad had looked a little panicked. He stopped short, however, when he got to the door of his (tiny but stylishly decorated) office, because he was surrounded on all sides by Tina and Mercedes, who looked prepared to pounce.

"Kurt Hummel, where the hell were you last night?! We texted you from the bar - I must have left you three voicemails -"

_Of course_. He very deliberately set his satchel on his desk and flipped through a stack of folders. "My phone must have been off. _Why_ does anyone drive in this city? I can't -" Mercedes was still regarding him with a raised eyebrow. It was her classic _you've-got-some-explaining-to-do_ face, and it did not bode well for him. "Oh, sorry. I had plans."

"Plans like... dinner and quality couch time with someone handsome, I hope?"

"That depends on whether you consider Tim Gunn handsome." He kept himself busy rifling through his inbox. "There was a marathon of the early seasons last night, and Carole froze leftovers last time she and Dad visited."

Mercedes put her hands on her hips with a sigh. "We lost out to television? Come on, the bartender at the second place we went to was just your type."

"And what exactly _is_ my type?"

"Handsome? Gay? Comes with the ability to fix a martini?" She shrugged. "How should I know if you won't tell me?" He was quietly impressed with her second long-suffering sigh. "At least tell me we're still on on for dinner. And a movie or something this weekend."

"Of course." He continued to flick through the folders on his desk. "Where are my messages?"

Tina shot a covert glance out towards the reception area, which meant they were, for all practical purposes, beyond saving. "I'm guessing somewhere out there, wherever Sugar has decided to leave them today. Including the one about the staff meeting."

"We have a meeting this morning?"

"Yeah, in ten minutes." The women exchanged a look. "It was called by Sue."

"Sue? She's never -"

"I know. Nobody knows." Tina lifted her shoulder in a small shrug. "But she's the owner, when she says jump..."

A thought came to him, and he brightened instantly. "Maybe I can talk to her about my pitch," he said, reaching into a drawer for a well-loved folder. "I know the last editor wasn't totally receptive to it, but maybe if she -" Tina and Mercedes were exchanging a look again, and his shoulders slumped a little. "What?"

Tina put a hand on his arm. "Hey, you know both of us think you're a great writer. I just... the boss said he didn't want lose you. You're the best copy-editor we have." She squeezed lightly. "I don't want you to be disappointed again."

"I'll be fine." He picked at the corners of the folder a little, the one containing the story he'd pitched to his editor last month. He'd gotten brushed off with empty compliments and assurances that he was the best they had. The best _copy-editor_. Not reporter.

He was proud of that. Kurt Hummel was damn good at his job, had gotten a job in print media (which everyone kept telling him was a dying field) after getting his degree and realizing that the life of an almost-literally starving actor was not really _him_. His passions had morphed in college, expanded. After graduation, armed with drive, intelligence and double degree in musical theater and English, he'd made his mark. He was proud.

He just wanted more.

He wanted to be Hersh, reporting on wars, bringing information to light that would change the way people looked at their country or their government. He wanted work with people like Dorothea Dix, uncovering injustices and spurring change. He wanted the things he wrote to _matter_. Local to state, national or global, he wanted to be a part of the news. He knew he had a long way to go, but he had to start somewhere.

And how could they ever know how good he'd be unless they'd give him a chance?

He swept out of his office in what he hoped was a casual manner, zeroing in on Sugar's desk. She was chattering into her earpiece, as was normal, her polka-dotted nail-file working busily on her fluorescent pink tips.

"So I said to Daddy _I don't care if his family only eats potatoes, or whatever, I'm taking him with us to the Hamptons and that's that_. It's just like that time with the Christmas party, and the imported peacocks, he just doesn't understand -"

"Sugar." Kurt set his hand down on the desk and raised his voice, because otherwise he knew he'd be waiting until Sandy or Mistii (with two i's) or Colin (who was the chattiest of all of them and had a poodle he swore he had a psychic connection with) had to go get their dog groomed or their teeth whitened, and today there just wasn't the time.

Sugar held up one sparkly finger, snapping her bubblegum, and Kurt pursed his lips.

"I know, I know, it's like he doesn't even remember that I have a job! I mean, he's the one who said I didn't appreciate how good I had it. And now he's mad that I went shopping at Saks twice last week. I said _listen - I work a full fifteen hours a week, daddy, and a girl needs some time to unwind_ - I only bought myself some shoes. Well, and a new coat. I needed them for work, everyone here had already seen most of my clothes. I don't think he understands how much they _rely_ on me here, and really, the bill was under two grand, I don't -" She sighed loudly (maybe she'd been taking lessons from Mercedes) and turned to Kurt, who was tapping his fingers. "Excuse me, Col. Yes?"

The poodle whisperer it was.

"Messages, Sugar?"

She rolled her eyes, handed him a stack of pink slips that were sitting under her iced coffee, ring of condensation and all. "Anyway, as I was saying, Col, this gala next week, I'm going to need a new dress. I've worn everything once, and -"

"At least you got them this time," Tina offered. "Travis - from accounting, with the horrible ties? - told me he had to wait ten minutes on Thursday to ask her about coffee for a meeting." Kurt grimaced at a call from personnel that was dated the previous Tuesday. "She gave him her order, handed him a twenty, and said he could keep the change."

He rolled his eyes, made a mental note to call Carole back, even though he was pretty sure she'd called him on his cell phone after she'd left the message, and steered the three of them towards the meeting room for whatever Sue Sylvester, the rarely seen (but often heard) voice of authority had in store.

* * *

"- as most of you will already know, our former editor will be spending the next few months at Happy Oaks, recovering from his small stress-related breakdown. I'm sure we all wish him well. There is a card to sign at reception, as well as information if any of you would like to send a gift - remember, no sharp objects! From a logistical point of view, there will be several people temporar -"

"Will Schuester wouldn't know a story if it danced naked in front of him slathered in that paste he calls hair gel and singing hits by mediocre bands from the eighties."

And with that Sue officially began the meeting. The assistant editor who had been giving the progress report scuttled back to his seat as she took her place at the head of the conference table in a way not at all different from what one would expect of a Bond villain. Although a bond villain probably wouldn't buy a pantsuit in that shade of blue, or pair it with a necklace that looked like a cross between pearls and teeth.

"Greetings, small percentage of my staff that I have deemed mildly competent. I have called you here because this newspaper has spent too many months under the leadership of an impotent - and, frankly, inane - editor concerned only with appealing to the advertising market, filling the pages with meaningless celebrity puff pieces and a deathly boring series of features chronicling the return of the sweater-vest. That is not journalism, nor is it interesting, and I did not spend my hard-earned blackmail money on a newspaper to watch it sink to the level of mundane trash. I want feature stories, investigative or not, filled with actual content and.."

Kurt drifted off as Sue went on about her vision, unable to avoid watching Tina making eyes at Mike through the plate glass wall of the conference room (licking the pencil? _Really?_). Schuester's departure after two months at the paper had been a shock to no-one, and there wasn't anyone who had been especially sorry to see him go, even if the simultaneous loss of the slightly obsessive redheaded secretary in Human Resources was, according to Mercedes, a great one. And as Sue was rhapsodizing about bringing people down, underage drinking and the lamentable state of the public education system (as demonstrated by her neighbors and their teenage hoodlums), he was trying to restructure his pitch for his article - an expose of a local businessman who, although he didn't have the sources to prove it yet, looked to be skimming from the LGBT shelter he ran - and steadfastly ignore Tina sucking on her pencil with her chair angled towards the hallway where her boyfriend was waiting.

"And so I've decided to send someone in. Someone still babyfaced enough to pass for a teenager, and clueless-looking enough not to draw attention. You. Porcelain."

It took Kurt a few seconds to realize that everyone in the room was looking at him. "Excuse me?"

"Yes, you'll do nicely. You start Monday. You'll enroll in a local public high school, find me the dirty secrets, where and how much alcohol they actually get their hands on. The administration will be able to pretend it was their idea all along, and this paper will finally print something of value."

"What?" He wasn't proud of the squawk. "Me?"

Sylvester eyed him over her glasses frames. "Oh, you'll fit in nicely."

"But," someone said, "he's just a copy-editor." Kurt was pretty sure it comes from the features corner of the room and he sent an appropriately crafted glare in that direction.

Sue appeared either unaware or unconcerned that anyone had spoken. "Alright, shoo. Porcelain, someone will be working this whole thing out with administration. Monday."

The room emptied quickly after Sue swept out, until finally he, Tina and Mercedes were the only three left.

_Undercover_. He couldn't even mind the nickname (he'd always been proud of his skin), because he was going to go_undercover_.

"Did I just become a reporter?" he asked the room at large, just to be sure.

"You got an assignment from Sue Sylvester!" Tina sounded happy, if a little surprised. "I'm guessing that if this goes well then you sure as hell will be."

"I have to call my dad." He reached for his phone, but Mercedes' face stopped him. "What is it?"

Her smile was strained. "It's just... you're going back to _high school_." She let out a breath of air, her lacquered nails fiddling with her necklace. "Honey, better you than me."

And then it hit him, beyond the rush of _oh, god, I got the job, I'm a reporter and I get to write_. He was going back to _high school_.

His stomach knotted, and all of a sudden his pale blue cravat seemed a little stifling. "Shit."

* * *

"I met Mike in high school," Tina smiled into her sandwich. "He was the best part."

"You guys have been together for a long time." He knew that; he'd been at their anniversary party last summer and it had been so lovely, watching them still so clearly in love. There had also been an ache, though, wondering if he'd ever have that - someone who looked at him like he was everything they'd ever wanted or needed, something precious. "High school romance that lasts." He found it a little difficult to look her in the eye, his mind preoccupied with thoughts of what could come from this; what he could do if he was given the chance to be an actual investigative journalist.

"They can be fun even when they don't last," Mercedes smirked, spearing a carrot with her fork. "If you do it right."

"Making out in the backseat of their car -" Tina reminisced fondly, earning an interested glance from a nearby waiter.

"- or the front seat in your parents' driveway."

"Racing to get back before curfew -"

"Wearing a scarf in June to cover your neck..."

"Or your chest."

"Really? Tee, you go girl."

She turned to Kurt. "How about you?" she asked. "Any salacious high school romances?"

He carefully swallowed his bit of pasta. "I went to high school in Ohio," he reminded them. "Not exactly a hotbed of support for out and proud teens."

She looked immediately contrite, a little uncomfortable. "Right, sorry... I'll bet you broke some hearts once you got to college, though. Strewn all over the city."

He shrugged, took a sip of his drink. "No one important. You and Mike, on the other hand -"

"Oh, come on. Just one story. Sneaking out of bed after a night of fun? Let me live vicariously through you, I've told you most of mine."

"Mostly when I didn't ask. There's been no one special," he added emphatically, "it's just never been right."

Mercedes waggled an eyebrow and leaned in conspiratorially. "Sometimes _wrong_ can be a lot of fun too."

He gave her a small smile. "To each their own. I want to find it, though."

"Love?"

"Maybe. Yes, obviously, eventually." He took a breath. "But... someone that matters - that I matter to. You know? Someone that... when I kiss them, or they kiss me, it feels like nothing else matters. That I'm what they want. All of me. And it won't matter what I've done or haven't done, it'll just matter who I am. Him and me... Everything else will melt away."

There was a pause.

"Damn," said Mercedes, pouring herself another glass of wine from the bottle. "You are a writer." There was a short pause while she took a sip. "But, I mean... don't we all?"

Tina looked a little teary, but she put her hand on his arm. "You'll find it," she promised. "And it'll be worth it when you do."

"And in the meantime there's always that bartender at Tara's," Mercedes added, but she nudged him playfully to belie her seriousness.

Tina held up her glass. "To love and friendship," she proposed, beginning to get a little giggly. "In every form that matters, whenever it chooses to come."

As they clinked glasses, and the girls started talking about what he'd need to start school the next week, Kurt couldn't help but hope that, in his case, it would be sooner rather than later.

* * *

He tried not to lie about it, but he'd realized over the years that the truth was more complex than just a no, not really everyone's business, and there was a tendency for people to make a big deal out of it. As though being kissed initiated you into some club that non-members could only dream of. Like you could only understand _people_, humanity as a construct, if you'd had someone's tongue (or other things) down your throat.

The fact was that high school had been a wasteland, a hostile environment that he'd finally accepted as just a stepping stone, something he needed to survive to get to where he wanted to be. It wasn't until college that he'd found his stride, felt comfortable with being himself in public, met people who inspired him and formed friendships that had roots deep enough that they'd last. He was still in touch with a couple of people from high school, a select few, but his college friends - and the friends he'd made since - were the ones who had become a huge and lasting part of his life. They, along with his family, were what he felt had slotted into place since those days in the West Lima High halls where he'd just been hoping to get by, even though he'd always known he was lucky to have a father who would fight for him at every turn.

But that had driven him in college, the desire to be everything he could now that he was finally in his element, and the romance he'd always wanted had never come. There were guys, ones he'd idly daydreamed about, who mentally fit into his fantasy wedding (which continued to evolve significantly from his five-year old self's incarnation) - the most notable in his junior year of college, a guy in his voice class with a really nice smile - but he'd either been too wary, too awkward, or too focused on keeping his grades up, on his future for anything to come of them.

He was twenty-five years old and he'd never been kissed. Because the timing had never been right, because the guy hadn't been right, whatever the reason at whatever the time, whenever he felt uncomfortable about it he remembered what his father had told him when he went off to college: he mattered.

The whole waiting-until-his-thirtieth-birthday thing might prove to be more prophetic than intended - it wasn't like he was planning on waiting for a ring or anything, but he'd always thought something would have worked out by now.

But with a steady job, hopefully working his way into the career he truly wanted, with his college degree and wonderful (if meddlesome) friends, he couldn't help but feel the lack of that - not just a kiss, or someone in his bed, but someone to share everything with. 'That thing'... for lack of a better term.

He wasn't ashamed of it, because it wasn't something to be ashamed of. He just didn't talk about it if he could help it. Like everyone, he had bad days, of course, where he was convinced he'd never find anyone - days when he ordered two cheesecakes and turned on a television marathon about someone more screwed up than him. Days when he was this close to going out to a bar and getting it over with; he knew he wasn't unattractive. He had the power to make it happen. Days where he blamed his hips, his hair, his insecurity and fear... but ultimately he always ctame back to knowing that it had never been right.

He just hoped it _would be_ someday.

In the meantime his expectations for his first kiss were rising higher and higher (except for the days when he wanted to get it over with), so at this point it looked like he'd be holding out for not only fireworks, but also ten dozen roses and possibly a carriage driven by unicorns.

Standards were important.

He'd know what he wanted when he found it, when it was worth it, and in the meantime he had a job to do. He had a chance to be a real reporter, and it depended on him being able to pass for eighteen years old all over again.

Luckily, he thought he knew where to start.

* * *

"Why can't you take _your_ car?"

He sighed - slightly dramatically, and Mercedes could have taken some lessons on appropriate levels of ennui - and nearly upset a display of hawaiian print packing tape. "I told you. My car won't fit in. I need something that looks cheap - I mean, that looks _well loved_. Your car is perfect."

Finn looked up from the boxes he was restocking. "Your car isn't _that_ new. Why do you even still have one, anyway?"

"Yeah, now the offices have moved to Manhattan it isn't practical, but I know someone who'll buy it - anyway, it's newer than -" He shook his head a little. _Now is not the time_. "Listen, I just need it for a few weeks -"

"For this job thing?"

"Right. And then you can have it right back... I'll owe you."

Finn settled into that confused smile that used to make Kurt want to strangle him. It still sometimes retained that effect. "And you have to pretend to go to high school."

"No, Finn, I have to _actually go_ to high school, I just have to pretend like I haven't done it before." Finn didn't seem convinced. "I start Monday."

He walked back behind the counter and started sorting a pile of envelopes. "But... you hated high school."

"I didn't hate school."

"Yeah, you kinda did. You hated everyone there."

"Well, they were cretins," he sniffed. "With a few exceptions."

"Do Mom and Burt know?"

"They aren't back in Ohio yet and you know it. So no."

Finn raised a very annoying eyebrow. "You could call them at their hotel. Or on one of their cell phones, they said they'd check their messages."

"I don't want them to worry." He uncrossed his arms huffily. "Anyway, that's not the point. This is my chance to actually_report a story_, Finn."

He held up his hands. "Hey, I'm happy for you and all, I just wouldn't think you'd want to do that again when you were so glad to get out."

Sometimes, clueless as he could be, Finn had a knack for hitting the nail on the head. That struck a nerve, and without really thinking about it Kurt shifted the subject. "You could still go back, you know. Take your last few credits, get your G.E.D."

As a diversionary tactic, it wasn't exactly subtle, but Finn didn't fight it. He just rolled a shoulder, dislodging the garish blue flowers that circled around his neck. "I think it's too late for that now, dude."

Kurt rolled his eyes. "You're _twenty-one_, Finn. I know that getting sick derailed a lot of your plans -" _and not getting picked up by that scout_, he added mentally, but would never say out loud - "but you're so close, and once you did that -"

"What's the point?" He'd moved across the floor to grab some wrapping paper off a high shelf, and when he turned around he had that look on his face, the one Kurt recognized as not confusion, but frustration. He'd had it _all_ in high school, Kurt knew, even if by that time he'd already left for New York, and after he'd gotten severe pneumonia during his senior year it had seemed like his world was ending. In a way, it had. "I can't play football anymore, and I never wanted to go to college." He thought for a moment. "I'm not you, Kurt. I was never going to go get a degree in english, or musical theater, or both, become some star journalist. I told Mom and Burt when I decided to move out here... I just need to do this for a while. I'm not in high school anymore." He gestured around to the store, laughed a little awkwardly, with more bitterness than Kurt expected from him. "At the moment... this is my life."

Kurt paused, deliberating the twenty or so things he wanted to say to that. They ranged from cruel and biting to...

"I want you to be happy, Finn."

And that was a smile, albeit a strained one. "You too, bro. It's all good."

"Aloha! Welcome to the Tikkipost, where packing is our pleasure and our customers are always right! A free lei for every customer!"

"Relax, Stu," Finn told his manager, who had just come out of the back room and settled purple flowers around Kurt's neck. "It's just my brother."

"Oh." The lei disappeared, and Stu soon followed. "Make sure you pack up Mrs. Simmons' wine glasses before your break. I gotta call Renee, trouble with the kids."

"Yeah, sure." Finn dug into his pocket. "So, you really need Drizzle?"

His lips twitched into a small smile, and he tried not to laugh. "I really do."

Finn's eyebrows furrowed. "What am _I_ going to drive?"

He paused. "You... can drive my car. As long as you're careful."

He dropped the keys into Kurt's hand. "Dude, awesome. Your stereo is _way_ better."

"Your stereo hasn't worked for about two years." He handed his keys over gingerly. "_Please_ don't get ketchup all over my car seats."

Five minutes later he was driving 'Drizzle' out of the Tikkipost parking lot, making his way out of Brooklyn and really hoping that Finn had tuned up the engine recently, otherwise he was going to have to do it himself.

At least he might look like he was on a high school budget now. If he was going to have to commute - at least the school was in Brooklyn, he wouldn't have to drive far - then he'd look the part.

Oh, god, he still had to decide what to wear.

* * *

Kurt sort of wondered, walking into McKinley High for the first time, if maybe there was one person who had designed every high school in the country from a single blueprint, because the halls of McKinley High seemed eerily similar to his own memories of West Lima. He'd finished his growth spurt by graduation, so there wasn't really a noticeable difference in scale, but the long hallways with their shiny lockers - scrubbed clean over the weekend - set that uncomfortable knot back in his stomach.

He'd spent a lot of time considering his outfit, and he finally thought he'd achieved the perfect balance: stylish without standing out too much (he was _undercover_, after all), casual enough for his teenage self but classy and enough to say "why yes, I know my color palette, why don't you?"

He fiddled a little with the chain on his brooch and hoped to god there was no slushie machine at this school.

He'd managed to find a parking spot fairly close, and so by the time he'd gotten his schedule from the guidance counselor - who had dropped him a wink, so he was pretty sure she either had terrible gaydar or was part of the circle of admin who had been consulted - the halls were beginning to fill, cliques gathering in their appointed places.

Yeah, he was back in high school.

It took him several minutes of wandering to find the main office _again_, several science classrooms, and restrooms. His locker, however, remained a mystery. He was pretty sure it couldn't exist - any number after 350 and below 375 seemed to be outside the school's purview - until a chance ducking around a corner to avoid a flying football (he'd stiffened, but the letterman jacket had passed right by, yelling to his friend) revealed a whole other hall. It was just as chattery, and in all ways identical to the others but for the locker numbers, which were promising.

Locker number 378, however, proved very difficult to open; a couple seemed to have chosen it as the perfect site for their morning greeting, and they looked to be well on their way to a cheery morning second base. His quiet "ahem" did nothing, and neither did the next. Before he could convince himself to work up to anything stronger the first bell was ringing and he was on his way to Pre-Calculus, the only math class that had been available, at least according to Sugar.

Sugar had, for better or worse, been the one trusted to set his schedule, and while he'd drawn the line at Spanish III (he couldn't even count to ten, for god's sake), he was stuck with Pre-Calculus - in spite of the fact that he hadn't taken a math class since his freshman year of college, and even _then_ it remained the only B in his entire academic history. At least he had English before lunch, a subject he was fairly certain he could comfortably coast in for however long he needed to. What could some stuffy high school English teacher have to say that would go over the head of a professional copy-editor with a degree in literature from one of the country's finest universities?

He just hoped they weren't reading Lord of the Flies. He _hated_ Lord of the Flies.

* * *

Math was as awful as anticipated (he didn't have to do _all_ the homework, right? Just enough to blend in. Oh, who was he kidding...) and, as the icing on the cake, he got lost on the way to French. When he walked in ten minutes late he handed the teacher the note the main office had given him - just in case - and she whistled to get the attention of the chattering students, who were taking the opportunity to catch up on their latest teenage drama.

"Silence, s'il vous plaît!" She turned back to him. "Kurt, voulez-vous vous présenter á la classe?"

He smiled. "Oui, madame. Est-ce que vous préférez de moi parler en anglais ou en français?"

She blinked at him. "Ah, vous pouvez parler en..." She shushed a guy in the back row who seemed to be inching his desk closer to the blonde cheerleader next to him and appeared to recover. "Je pense que l'anglais c'est la choix la plus sûre." She gestured to the front of the room and he took a deep breath.

"Hi, I'm Kurt Hummel," he waved. "I'm new," he heard a giggle from the back of the classroom and made himself stand up straighter. He was a professional, he worked with actual adults all the time, why was it that talking to a room full of high schoolers was making his palms sweat? His story, right, they'd decided to keep it simple. "I'm eighteen, from Ohio-"

"Buckeyes suck!" someone contributed from the back, and he vaguely heard the teacher snap at them to show some respect for their peers.

"We moved, though, for my dad's job, so that's why I'm switching schools so late in the year."

They weren't paying attention; Kurt was pretty sure about seventy percent of them were still playing Angry Birds, but at least there didn't seem to be anyone mortally offended by his voice or clothes, and that was a start. A _vast_ improvement on his last high school experience. And it was probably better that they didn't think too hard about his cover story, because as far as Kurt was concerned it lacked a large amount of credibility.

He moved to sit down, but the teacher cleared her throat. "One more thing, Mr. Hummel."

"Yes?"

"I'm afraid that in this class, tardiness has a price." She pulled out a tall hat shaped like the Eiffel tower.

"But... I'm new," he tried, eyeing it with horror.

"And after five minutes in this hat you'll never be late again."

A few people shot him sympathetic looks, and there was an _olé!_ from the back of the room that made him inclined to agree with Sue's assessment of the public education system .

He took out his notebook, settled into an empty seat, and noticed that they were still working on future conjugation of irregular verbs.

At least he probably wouldn't flunk out, even if his plus-que-parfait was a little rusty.

* * *

He was almost late to English too - Madame Nolan pulled him aside after class to give him the syllabus, and she also complimented his vocabulary. He started to explain the semester of his junior year that he'd spent in Paris, but managed to alter course and mumble something about spending a summer there as a child and picking it up (the lie sounded and felt awkward, even though it wasn't even his first of the day, and he was undercover for god's sake, what was he supposed to do? Stay silent? Teenagers mumbled, right?).

The English classroom was larger than he expected, with a piano in the corner that hinted it probably also doubled as a music room. Students were scattered; the second bell hadn't rung yet and the seat-shifting-Buckeye-hater, mohawk still as rodent-looking as earlier, had moved on to a brunette cheerleader, although this one seemed to be immune to his dubious charms. Someone was fiddling around on the piano (Vivaldi, he thought, not bad, really), and so Kurt took him time selecting a seat in the first row, next to a girl in an unfortunate sweater who was intently scribbling in her notebook.

He brightened at the chalkboard's announcement that they'd be discussing the central themes of _As You Like It_, an unusual choice for assigned reading; if he was going to have to sit through lectures on iambic pentameter and blank verse, at least it was a play he liked. And yeah, in Lima the closest they'd gotten to studying the beautiful language of Shakespeare had been a football player and a cheerleader guffawing and giggling their way through the balcony scene until the teacher finally put them all out of their misery and started the movie, but...

Even a boring lecture would be better than Mrs. Rawlins' post-divorce (and plaid-clad) tirades on the diminishing returns of what people had misguidedly thought was true love. West Lima High School was not known for its professionalism. His Shakespeare Class at NYU, however, although at 8am, had been excellent, and he'd discovered levels of meaning in the language that he found intoxicating. That class had been one of the things that pushed him towards adding his English major, and so it had taken rather a significant role in his career choices, his life after graduation.

The bell prompted most of the students to settle into their desks, and by the time Kurt flicked his eyes up from his cell phone (Mercedes and Tina kept asking for updates, did they not understand the meaning of _undercover_?) the teacher was clearing his throat, leaning against the desk.

And he didn't look _in the least_ boring.

He was already smiling at the class, young-looking, he couldn't be that much older than Kurt himself. Kurt couldn't help but notice the nicely shaped arms braced on the desk behind him, and he _really_ couldn't stop his eyes making the full trip up and down, from his smile and slightly crooked bowtie (pale blue, Kurt approved) to his shoes and then back.

"Hi, everyone." He rubbed his hands together with slight glee. "So, I have no doubt that every single one of you did the reading for last night, and so you won't mind if I give you all your test today -"

There was an outbreak of groans and, if anything, his grin only widened as he held up a hand.

" - I'm not, but consider it a warning. Do your reading. Give me something to work with, here. How am I supposed to pick your guys' brains if they're busy wondering what the h- heck I'm talking about?"

Several girls behind him tittered, and his eyes fell on Kurt in the first row.

"Well, we seem to have someone new in our midst. And you are?"

His spine seemed to straighten of its own accord. "I'm Kurt. Kurt Hummel. I'm new."

"Well, Kurt, Kurt Hummel. I'm Blaine Anderson. Mr. Anderson, usually, to keep things formal, but the drama club, choir and jazz band all call me Blaine, as long as everyone's comfortable. Welcome."

"Thank you."

"Buckeyes suck!"

Blaine sighed heavily, his eyes drifting closed momentarily. "Noah, if only you were half as passionate about Shakespeare as you are about supporting the wrong football teams."

The guy with the mohawk leaned back in his seat. "Hey, come on Mr. A. -"

His lips twitched, and Kurt found himself missing just a little that smile directed at him. "We're not starting this again, and especially not during class-time. Don't trash my team and I won't trash yours."

"The new kid's from Ohio too."

He looked up from his desk. "Really." His eyes flicked back to Kurt, who nodded. "Well, it's nice to finally have some class in here." He picked up a book on the table. "So, on to business, who has thoughts on _As You Like It?_"

The hand of the girl in the sequined sweater shot up immediately, and Kurt settled back into his seat, kept his eyes deliberately on his paper. He knew his cheeks must still be that awful shade of pink; he hated that his embarrassment or nervousness was always so obvious. He was twenty five years old, for god's sake. Seeing a cute guy was not the end of the world.

Being back in high school was really messing with his perspective.


	2. Chapter 2

The class actually got into a spirited debate, even those who weren't as familiar with the material weighing in somehow, and Kurt was sorry to hear the bell ring when it did.

His own high school experience had been one spent in necessary, carefully cultivated apathy, watching the vast majority of his peers be content to scrape by on sparknotes and in-class naps. The teachers hadn't been much more invested than the students; they'd either given up and left the classes to their own devices or droned on through their prepared materials without regard for the chaos right in front of them.

But with Mr. A - Blaine? - the classroom didn't ever even approach chaos, and that wasn't because he was particularly strict, either. Even those who had _clearly_ not read the play seemed to have a basic respect for him, and there were only a few occasions where Kurt had to roll his eyes at the rising volume of the back row before they were silenced with a calm "if you have something to add then please, guys, do - raise your hand... otherwise, button it."

There were always people who weren't willing to engage in class discussions, for whatever reason, but in that class the teacher seemed to be invested in hearing them, listening to what they had to say. No teacher was perfect, but it was clear that Blaine Anderson loved his job. And he seemed to be doing it well, at least as far as Kurt had observed. When he got excited he used his arms a lot, bounced from corner to corner of the room as he asked questions, celebrated when the answers were thoughtful and interesting. He was different.

Kurt was packing everything up to go to lunch at the end of class as Blaine (was that what high school teachers did now? Kurt would have sooner cut off his hand than call Mrs. Rawlins 'Janine') shouted a reminder that rough drafts of papers were due the following week. The girl next to him - the one who had an answer for everything, if today's class was any indication (although possibly not if the question was 'is my sweater a crime against fashion?') leaned over to him, her hair swinging out from behind her bright pink headband.

"I thought what you said about the symbolism of the forest was very thoughtful," she offered deliberately, as though bestowing a great gift.

"Thanks." He'd kept relatively quiet, trying to stay under the radar, but when Mr. A - Blaine - had asked about the underlying significance of the forest the class had fallen into a clueless silence, and he couldn't help but say his piece. Blaine had looked impressed, gratified that someone had actually cared, and his quiet 'thank you, Kurt' had made Kurt's cheeks flush again.

"I'm Rachel. Rachel Barbra Berry. I also appreciate the intricacies of Shakespeare's works, especially in the way that they relate to modern theater and music." She held out her hand in a manner that caused him to question whether she expected him to shake or kiss it.

He settled for the former. "Kurt Hummel. I'm new."

"I know," she said sincerely. "In the spirit of camaraderie I'd ask you to join me for lunch, but I'm afraid I'm committed to practicing in the choir room today. I've reserved the more in-tune piano - it's in the band room - and found myself a volunteer accompanist."

"You sing?"

"Of _course_." Her tone indicated that he was a fool to not have realized sooner. "Ordinarily I sing with our school show choir, but we failed to qualify for nationals this year." She pursed her lips. "There was some confusion concerning a paid appearance I was able to organize in February, but we have placed nationally the last two years in a row. And as a consequence we were able to mount a full musical this spring, which looked extremely impressive on my college applications." She tilted her head. "It's a pity you missed it, my Sarah Brown received excellent reviews."

"I'm sure it was -"

"The local newspaper said I was a rising star who seemed fully, almost overwhelmingly aware of every ounce of my talent," she continued. "Which is why I have to keep my instrument finely tuned."

"Right," Kurt managed, for lack of a better response. "I - Well, I guess I'll see you around."

"Of course. We'll have to talk more another time." She waved as she disappeared around the corner, and Kurt forced himself to focus. He had a job to do, after all.

But first it was lunchtime at McKinley High, one of his least favorite times of day when he'd been in high school the first time, and he needed to find the goddamn cafeteria.

* * *

"...um, excuse me, can I ask what's in that?" He pointed to the gloopy looking paste he assumed was some kind of potato and lard based dish.

The lunch lady glared at him over the partition, and lifted a large container into view. The label read _Pasta sal. (mixed)_.

Grumbling came from further down the line at the hold-up.

"Right," he said weakly. "Thanks."

He picked up a saran-wrapped cookie - for dessert - and turned.

And there it was: the great divide.

The jock tables, football players and cheerleaders sitting around and on top of each other, comfortable in the knowledge that they remained the kings and queens of their domain. The ordinary people, divided by club, activity, or their own special clique, each with their place in the hierarchy, but none as socially important as those decked in the school colors; uniforms that gave them their power.

Something knotted in his stomach, memories of a past that suddenly seemed all too present, tears, and loneliness, and hoping with everything he had for someone to understand, and he moved quickly to the doors, settled on one of the picnic tables outside and took out his notebook, taking a couple of calming breaths and grimacing as he tasted the pasta and tried to work out what his next step should be.

* * *

The bell at the finish of his last class felt far too familiar, a little rush of nostalgia and relief at the end of another day.

Packing his things away he noticed that one of his notebooks was missing - the one he'd last used to take notes in English, and with a weary sigh he turned around; if he was supposed to be a credible high school student he supposed he'd have to keep up. He'd stop by the classroom on the way to his car and hope that it was still there.

He heard the music as he rounded the corner - soft, haunting. It was the same Vivaldi piece he'd heard before class, but without the ambient chatter he recognized it as _Winter_ - the only reason he knew it was because it was his favorite of the Four Seasons. He stopped, closed his eyes for a minute and let himself listen, the memory of twirling in his kitchen, the classical station that his mother liked to listen to the soundtrack for making dinner. He'd learned to waltz to Mozart, bowed to his mom as she let him lead her around the kitchen to Debussy, spun himself in dizzying circles on the tile until they both dissolved in giggles to composers he'd never remember the names of. He was far from an expert, and his mom hadn't known a great deal beyond how she felt about it, a love that Kurt had kept with him, rediscovered quietly in college as part of the arts program. He smiled, let the notes wrap him up and himself forget all the things he was and wasn't. To him music had always most represented what _could_ be.

When the music paused he came back to himself.

"Oh, hi. It's Kurt, right?" Blaine stood up from the piano bench as he rounded the door, gathering papers from the top of the piano.

"Yeah. I mean, yes. Please, don't stop on my account, I just came to -" he gestured to his notebook where it sat abandoned on a side table.

"I was just leaving, actually." He waved a folder as he slipped it into his bag. "Freshman tests to grade. Harper Lee waits for no man."

"I'll let you go then. See you tomorrow." He stopped by the door, notebook in hand, and took a deep breath. This really shouldn't be that hard to say. "You sounded really great. The piano, I mean."

His answering smile was wide and sincere. The poet in Kurt, the one he'd dismissed in college as overly sentimental, immediately started deliberating odes comparing it to the sun, rays of light reaching out to each - "Thanks. I try to make use of it as much as possible. It not everywhere you can find a grand piano to practice."

"Vivaldi is one of my favorites," he found himself saying, earning what looked like an impressed eyebrow.

"Really? I don't come across many teenagers here who are fans."

_I'm not a teenager, and when I was I wasn't exactly typical_, Kurt wanted to say, but instead he offered a simple shrug. "It reminds me of my mom."

"That's great." He moved to the desk, began gathering pencils and slipping them into a drawer. "She sounds like a woman of great taste."

"She was." At Blaine's look he elaborated, and he wasn't really sure why. "She died when I was eight."

"I'm so sorry."

"Thank you," he responded automatically. "It was almost eightee - almost ten years ago now, so..." He kicked himself for the slip, so used to the question in his daily life as an adult that he forgot for a moment that he wasn't supposed to be himself. Or, rather, he was, but himself seven years ago. "Anyway, it was nice to hear." He saw the top sheet. "_Anything Goes?_"

Blaine's eyes lighted on the pile and he chuckled. "Yeah. I was considering a few songs for Glee Club earlier in the year."

"Sutton Foster was amazing," Kurt sighed without thinking.

"You saw the revival!?" He stood up straight immediately, eyes alight, and Kurt saw something in him shift. The writer in Kurt started comparing shades of firelight and chocolate.

"Twice," he confided.

"Me too!" Blaine huffed a small laugh, moved for the door. "I'm glad you're in my class, Kurt. Aside from some Ohio solidarity, I really enjoyed hearing your thoughts today."

"Thanks." He cleared his throat, because apparently he was all of a sudden twelve and probably an extremely unflattering shade of red. "Your class seems very interesting. Thoughtful."

"I hope so. That's what I'm aiming for. Well, I'd better be going, I'll see you tomorrow."

There was a long, awkward pause as they reached the door, a little you-first-no-you that ended when they went their separate ways in the hall, Kurt offering what he hoped was a casual goodbye as he took deep breaths and headed for the small student parking lot.

He couldn't get distracted. He had a job to do, and that job did not include crushing on his fake high school English teacher, no matter how intelligent, musical or cute he was, and whether or not he seemed like he might be gay. _I wonder how old he is. He can't be that much older than I am._

It wasn't until he reached the parking lot and pulled Finn's keys out of his pocket, mentally composing a report of his first day to send into work, that something struck him.

"...wait. Where's my car?"

"Oh, they like to do that to the new kids on the first day. I wouldn't take it personally, it'll show up in a few hours."

He was still standing there a minute later, frozen with confusion and horror, and he turned to find Rachel Barbra Berry, headband, sequins and all.

"I'm sorry," he said, because he really didn't get it. "What?"

"Your car." She waved her pink key-fob in the direction of the empty space he'd been staring at. "It'll be back in a few hours. I can drive you home, if you'd like." She saw the musical note brooch pinned to the lapel of the jacket he'd been able to retrieve from his locker, now that the couple who seemed to find it so romantic had moved on to new pastures. "Oh, are you a fellow connoisseur of the arts? A musician? Piano, perhaps? I might be able to engage your services, the accompanist I have for rehearsals at present is a little too enthusiastic when it comes to -"

"I sing," he interjected hurriedly. He felt like conversation with Rachel Berry required a certain competitive streak. It would have been more accurate to say that he _used_ to sing, as his only performances of late were when dragged to karaoke with friends or in the privacy of his shower or living room, but conversationally that was a slippery slope to career ambitions, which it seemed unwise to breach. _Just be eighteen year old you. What did you want?_

_To get out._

Rachel's squeal of delight and subsequent entreaties that they needed to go out for ice-cream were the beginning of an afternoon that Kurt fully expected to suffer through. There was no denying that Rachel was sometimes - there was no other way to say it - a little _much_ - and the fact that she seemed to know this, be proud of it, even, could be a little off-putting.

But fairly quickly two things became clear about Rachel Barbra Berry.

Firstly, she knew what she wanted and she wouldn't take no for an answer.

Secondly, while she clearly had no idea that her sweater was completely offensive to anyone who laid eyes on it, she was genuinely interested in sharing with the new kid, giving him the information she thought he'd need to survive the last days of senior year. She was reaching out.

Horrible sweater or not, Kurt found himself deeply appreciating Rachel Berry. Although her tact did leave a great deal to be desired.

"You're gay?"

He looked up from his double scoop of chocolate chip, memories of coming out in Ohio making his palms sweat, even with the confidence he had gained since then. "...yes."

Her smile dipped, then widened. "It's probably just as well." When he raised an eyebrow, she lifted a hand to adjust her beret. "My two dads have helped me improve my gaydar tremendously, so as to avoid awkward encounters when I'm a star." She sniffed and her cheeks went a little pink. "Clearly our relationship isn't meant to be romantic, but I'm glad we have class together." While he was wondering how she made his confirmation of his sexuality into her letting him down easily her face softened. "It's nice to have someone who appreciates Sondheim for more than his most known works." Her eyes lit up. "Tell me you saw the special on PBS last month."

He laughed, his breath coming easier than he remembered all day. "I called in sick and worked from home the next day so I could watch it again."

"Your parents let you skip school?"

He froze with his spoon halfway to his mouth and had to pause to lick a drop threatening to ruin his favorite grey vest. "I said my allergies were acting up," he finally managed. "I think they were suspicious, but at least I wasn't skipping out to... I don't know, buy drugs or something. And when I cried I could blame some of it on Elaine and Patti."

He was half afraid she'd pick up on something, ask about "work", but she just gripped the edge of the table and sighed. "I would have killed to have tickets to that." She lifted her chin. "Someday...someday I'll be there."

He realized what it was, in that moment, that he liked about Rachel Berry.

He recognized the look in her eye.

* * *

As the last drops of their ice creams disappeared Rachel brought up colleges.

"I actually just got my acceptance letter," she preened, just a little smug. "I'll be attending NYADA in the fall. It's my first choice, as well as the only school I applied to, although I did consider NYU -"

"I went there!" he said excitedly, waving his cup, and then immediately considered a change in careers because clearly this subterfuge thing did not come naturally to him. When Rachel blinked at him, he cleared his throat. "I mean... I went on a tour. Of the school. It's very nice."

"It is," she agreed. "But I knew from the start that NYADA was the only school that would properly cultivate my performing and vocal talents." She shrugged her shoulders with a resigned smile. "How about you? What are your plans for college?"

Planning a fictional college career for his twenty-five year old self pretending to be eighteen felt like a little much. "Oh... I don't - I'm planning to take a year off. You know, investigate my options."

"But you're going to major in vocal performance or musical theater, right?" she asked with certainty. "I mean, obviously I haven't heard you sing, so I can't say with certainty whether you have the talent to succeed -" (_it really is a wonder that this girl isn't slapped in the face daily_he mused) "- but just by talking to you I can tell that it's something you're passionate about."

"I am," he agreed. "I... maybe. It's something I'd like to pursue. But, you know, sometimes you can become passionate about other things too."

"Like what?"

He half-shrugged. "I like to write."

She sat up straight. "Music, theater?"

"...stories, plays, poetry... anything really." And nonfiction. All of it. Everything that could make a difference to someone.

"Well," she said after a pause. "I can't speak to your writing ability, but I was impressed with your thoughts in class today." She grasped his arm over the table, painfully sincere, and he wondered how many people she had to talk to about music, theater, all the things she was passionate about. "And I really enjoyed our date."

As they stood to go he paused. "Rachel..."

When she saw his face she nudged him in the ribs, perhaps a little harder than he expected from someone of her size. "Friends can have ice-cream dates. Don't flatter yourself." She pulled her keys out of her purse as they left the creamery. "We're listening to _Wicked_ on the way back," she informed him, sweeping out the door ahead. "And we will be singing along, so I can assess your voice and then see if we blend. I will be Elphaba."

He blinked after her, and it wasn't until he was back in his apartment, having recovered his car from the football field and settled on the couch with _As You Like It_ that he realized he'd never even asked Rachel about partying, or anything really to do with his actual purpose at McKinley High.

* * *

When he pulled into the parking lot three days later it was to see a bright blue van across the street, an unobtrusive logo on the back that read "WChoc Services Inc". It might have even been subtle if not for the waves painted along the side.

He sighed and made his way very deliberately to the back doors, pulling them open and nearly ending up crushed by six feet of blonde surfer boy.

"Sam," he greeted conversationally. "How nice to see you on this fine, undercover morning."

"Hey, man." Sam held out his fist for his own traditional greeting. "You'd better come in."

The van was just as he remembered it, tech, pillows, junk food and all. He supposed that since Sam spent so much of his time in here that it had to be comfortable, but he could really use some kind of input on the decoration. It was all a bit... mismatched, if probably cozy.

"Why are you here, Sam?"

"Paper sent me," he answered, earning an eyeroll. "They want you wired. Someone's getting a little impatient."

"I'm undercover. It takes time to find out where all the partying is."

"That's not how I remember high school," Sam smiled a little nostalgically. "But whatever. Boss wants you wearing this. I don't think anyone'll be watching live right now, but they might route it to something later. I'll be watching and giving them tapes."

"This is a huge waste of your time," he tried. "Shouldn't you be doing something valuable, like catching crime lords or corrupt politicians?"

He shrugged, scratched his head, and Kurt was struck all over again with just how much he wanted to introduce him to a quality brand of conditioner for color-treated hair. "You'd be surprised how few of those jobs there are to go around. And how much Sue's willing to shell out for a chance at a headline."

Kurt bristled at the reminder. He had a job to do. "Right, I'd better go. I have a Shakespeare paper to turn in."

"Man, better you than me -" He eyed Kurt warily. "I mean, I."

"Me."

"What?"

Kurt smiled. "It's better you than me."

"Yeah. Okay. Anyways, man, I'll be watching. Here's your camera. It's a great little number." He pulled a little pin out from a case next to a monitor and clipped it to the lapel of Kurt's jacket. "I'll be able to see and hear you as long as you have this wire connected. You can text me if you need anything."

Kurt's eye caught on the pile of comics sitting next to the biggest cushion. "Busy day planned, then?"

Sam smiled in the way Kurt had heard about a hundred times when he and Mercedes first met. "Someone's gotta do it. I ain't complaining."

He winced internally at the grammar, a professional hazard, but moved to the doors. "I'd better go before someone gets the wrong idea. And do me a favor - park further down the street?"

"You got it." Sam opened his mouth to add something, then closed it, and Kurt paused with his hand on the handle.

"She's doing okay, Sam."

Kurt saw his grip around a battery loosen. "Good," he said, and sounded like he meant it. "That's good."

He shifted awkwardly. "Right... well, bye."

"May the force be with you," Sam intoned, earning himself a final eyeroll before Kurt rushed to class.

* * *

_... important to consider those implications, what comes from Rosalind's decision to dress and present herself as a man. Beyond the issue of safety from her uncle's pursuit, she continues the charade to form personal relationships, most notably with the man she has fallen in love with. The relationship that she - as Ganymede - forges with Orlando is a complex one, and by convincing Orlando to pretend that he (Rosalind as Ganymede) is the lady that he loves (which, to make things more confusing, she actually is) she adds another layer of intrigue, gives herself a new depth of power over him. She also, as Ganymede, asserts this power over the shepherd and shepherdess, Silvius and Phebe, and the resolution of the play shows us many couples, more than one of which is of Rosalind's construction. She gives the epilogue, now as herself, and as the play closes we see her in all of her glory: a woman who disguised herself as a man and was able to use that identity, and the knowledge it brought, to resolve both her own problems and fears and, indirectly, the problems of many of those around her._  
_  
What does this say, from a gender standpoint? Comparing it with Shakespeare's other works, and the different ways he distorts traditional perceptions of both the female and male..._

* * *

Even now, years removed from his own high school experience, the sight of those letterman jackets knotted something in his stomach, brought back buried memories of sharp locker corners and bruises that had ached for weeks. It had gotten better after his father found out, after he'd stopped being able to hide what the fear and pain was doing to him. Burt Hummel had threatened that school with everything he had, marshalled others in the town to his cause on the strength of the respect he'd earned, and that was what had propelled him into local politics. That had been the first step.

But although he intellectually knew that he had changed as times had changed, that he wasn't in small-town Ohio anymore and that these people, unpleasant though they might be, posed no real threat to him... it was still a little too much to take.

He headed for the doors, past a table of kids in matching red math team t-shirts (he smiled inwardly at the slogan on the back, a simple _"greater than"_ _you_) and out towards the front of the school. He remembered seeing a small patch of lawn, and he needed a minute to collect himself, put himself back in the present and regroup. He set his tray on an old, weathered picnic table.

"Sorry I'm late, I left my sheet music in my locker, ugh, I had to traipse all the way across school." Rachel set her binder down with a sharp sound and settled onto the opposite bench. "My dads made vegan cheescake last night, I brought you a piece."

He managed a smile as he took the proffered fork and handed her a paper. "My oatmeal raisin recipe, as promised. I included the vegan changes."

"Thank you." She took a deep breath. "I have news."

He paused with a forkful of cheesecake in his mouth. "Wmmmfut?"

"The revival theater is playing _Love Story_." She clapped her hands together. "It's tonight, and the drama club has decided to go. Say you'll come with us."

He hesitated, not sure if that technically fell under the umbrella of research, even though he was extremely tempted. "I'm not sure if my parents -"

"Come on," she wheedled. "I'll drive. We won't be back too late. You have to go - their popcorn is to die for, and if you don't come with me then Nathan will spend all night falling asleep on my shoulder."

He pretended to consider for another moment, already planning his outfit. "Okay. But I pick the music."

"Of course," she smiled comfortingly.

* * *

"Don't try to ra-ain on my paraaaade!" Rachel belted from the driver's seat of her dad's car, coming perilously close to swerving into the opposite lane.

He switched the stereo off, because three times was about all he could take. "Concentrate on the road, Rachel," he chastised, flashing back to a few summers ago when he'd spent part of his vacation in Ohio, and Finn had just gotten his license. He knew that she probably didn't drive much, living in the city, but the Barbra certainly wasn't helping and he wanted to live to see his fake graduation.

"What was your paper on?" she asked, and he cleared his throat a little hastily.

"Ummm..."

"It must have been good for Blaine - Mr. A - to stop you in the hall and mention it."

"It's not a big deal."

She turned her head and he slammed his foot on an imaginary brake, not opening his eyes until he felt them safely stopped at the red light. "He said your writing was advanced and extremely effective, Kurt."

He'd actually really liked it, although he probably should have made a conscious effort to dial back his style a little. All those writing classes for his English major had really paid off, and maybe on some level he'd been a little anxious to show off. "He was probably just saying that because I'm new, to be encouraging."

"He doesn't do that," she said with confidence. "I _told you_, he isn't someone who does that. He's a great teacher, and if he says you're good he means it, Kurt." She purses her lips. "I think you should look into taking classes next year."

"You're reading too much into this, and I told you, I'm going to work next year, see where I am, and then maybe-"

"I'm just saying," she interrupted without signs of any remorse, "you should consider it. You're smart."

"Smart people can _not_ go to college, you know. It doesn't make them _less smart_." This was getting so much more complicated than he'd realized.

"Of course. I just kind of got the impression that you wanted to. I'm sure Blaine - Mr. A - would help you, give you advice if you talked to him about it."

He was sure too. It had turned out that one of the subjects for which Rachel was an invaluable fountain of information was her favorite teacher, the one who'd suggested she apply to NYADA and NYU (although Rachel had glossed over the fact that he'd also recommended she keep her options open, and offered her a whole list of other schools) and the one who had pushed with the administration to find funding for the school musical. He'd gotten the basics: twenty-four, graduate of OSU (which explained the Buckeyes), on hiatus from a masters degree at NYU (and that was a story he'd like to have asked Blaine himself about if he were allowed to be twenty-five rather than eighteen), and very good at his job, even though he evidently hadn't been teaching for long. Liked, respected (even by most of the kids who considered school a waste of time, if Rachel was to be believed). He'd helped Noah Puckerman understand iambic pentameter, at least enough not to have his GPA dip low enough to get him kicked off the football team. He'd kept the show choir going, intervened on Julie Miner's behalf when everyone knew the reason why she'd been increasingly snappy towards authority was that her mom was getting sick. He didn't take crap from students, though, and he'd gotten Steven Cutler expelled for whatever happened in fifth period with Sanara Cape-Hayes. Apparently it had been scary, whatever it was. He was gay, or at least he assumed so from the story Rachel told about her fathers thinking about fixing him up with one of their family friends (apparently Blaine had politely declined) and her mentions of his involvement with a local LGBT youth center (he probably also rescued abandoned puppies in his spare time).

"It must be nice having teachers that care," he said quietly.

"Didn't they care in Ohio?"

He chuckled, but signs of movement and shouting from down the block caught his eye. "Hey, Rachel. What's that?"

"What's what? Oh." Her voice became hard. "That. That's just the Lot."

"The Lot?" As they got closer he recognized one of the girls sitting by the high gate, one of the blonde cheerleaders from school - now out of uniform and sipping from what looked like a beer bottle.

"The grocery store building was abandoned, and so now some of the... popular kids like to party there."

Kurt was squinting through his open window now, trying to make out the faces through the large gap in the fence. "Aren't they worried they'll get caught? They could be arrested and this... isn't all that subtle."

She shrugged, paused pulled over to the curb. "It's fenced off enough that most people stay away, and Quinn Fabray's parents are rich enough that they haven't been caught yet. And I think one of their dads owns the land." Her sniff was practiced. "Which is not to say they aren't incredibly stupid to do it."

"Have you ever been?"

"We don't take in strays." The blonde was standing outside the car, sans bottle now, hand on her hips and a smirk on her face.

"Hello Quinn," Rachel said, eyes slightly narrowed but tone a very forced version of polite.

"Princess," she responded curtly. "Is there a reason you're here?"

"We were just passing through -"

"Good," she said, a hand running through the pink streaks he assumed were clip in extensions. When the car didn't move immediately she made a shooing gesture. "Well, go on then. _Pass_."

"Like I'd want to stay here and watch you destroy your lungs and vocal chords," Rachel muttered, seeming a little uncharacteristically shaken, but Quinn just raised an eyebrow.

"Shouldn't you be running home to daddy, like usual?" she asked, and Rachel gritted her teeth, threw the car into drive and peeled out. In the rear view mirror, Kurt saw mohawk guy join her, guffaw and bring his hand up into an L on his forehead in their direction.

He waited a moment before he spoke. "She didn't seem too friendly."

"Quinn Fabray? She's head cheerleader. She doesn't need to be friendly."

"I take it the two of you aren't exactly friends."

"She's jealous of my talent," Rachel said after a pause. "That's why she's so antagonistic. It all started in the sixth grade, when I won the talent show."

"Her friends don't seem all that polite either."

Rachel shrugged. "They're popular." On a breath she added, "When I'm a star and they beg me for tickets to my sold out performances, then they'll be sorry."

"Are you - have they-"

"It's just words," she maintains, head held high. "Santana Lopez calling me - them telling me all those things doesn't make them true."

He remembered then, remembered _one day you'll all work for me_, working scales in his room, sketching ideas for jackets, pouring through_Vogue_ every month and promising he'd get out of Ohio, he'd _be somebody_ and they'd all be sorry. He'd have been lying if he'd said that wasn't part of what had driven him, gotten him through high school, the knowledge that he could amount to more than all of them combined.

He knew that Rachel had probably found high school tough, although he couldn't really compare their experiences, and he wanted to assure her that it would get better. Even if your dreams didn't exactly play out the way you wanted, that in his experience, chasing after new ones could be a journey of its own. He wanted to tell her that she'd look back on these people and probably pity them, because although they might go on to lead happy fulfilled lives, become positive influences in society, it was their insecurities that made them who they were right now.

He settled on, "I'm sure you'll show them, Rachel Barbra Berry," and settled back in the driver's seat, wondering forcing himself to focus on his next step now that he seemed to have a lead.

* * *

"This," Sue said with certainty. "This is where you need to be."

He hadn't been wearing his wire when he went to the movie, but he'd called in the next morning and Sue had beckoned him for a meeting the following Monday. He'd asked her to push it earlier, but even now it was going to be really tough for him to make it to first period. And they were going to do a jeopardy-style review for the math test today - he found himself disappointed at the thought of missing it.

"Listen to me, Porcelain," she snapped, and he was slightly disturbed by the look of triumph on her face. "This is your way in. I need you to make friends with these people -"

"I really don't think -"

"And then I need you to get me the information to reveal them as the depraved lunatics we know all teens to be."

"They're the popular kids," he said a little defensively. "I don't think they like me very much."

And now Sue's grin was downright frightening. "Nonsense, Porcelain," she dismissed, setting her feet on the desk of her newly taken over office. "With a complexion like yours? You must be their king." She leaned back in her chair. "Now go. I'll need something by the middle of this week, or I won't be able to justify having Lips Magee using up my electronic surveillance budget."

"You have an elec -"

"Becky! I'm ready for my protein shake!"

He passed Sue's assistant hurrying in, having paused in sorting the portraits waiting to be hung in the editor's office. All of Sue Sylvester, obviously.

So he just needed to work his way into the popular crowd, he mused, stepping into the elevator and estimating how much later he'd be if he stopped for a chocolate croissant. Become popular in high school in less than a week. When the doors closed, he allowed himself to slump.

He was so screwed.


	3. Chapter 3

"Kurt, can I talk to you for a moment?"

When he got to the front of the room Blaine (he couldn't help but think of him as Blaine, especially when Rachel mentioned him so often, and no, he didn't mean to encourage her, it just sort of happened) was already erasing the chalkboard, sliding the whiteboard that covered it back into place.

"You wanted to speak to me?"

"I do. I have to ask you something." He waited a beat, until the classroom was cleared, then picked a paper from the bottom of a pile. "Kurt, is this your work?"

It was the character analysis paper - a short one this time, three pages - that he'd handed in the previous day.

"Yes." He'd taken more time with it than he probably should have, used it as a distraction from worrying about how he would infiltrate the popular crowd, find out more about where they were able to get alcohol (and maybe drugs? He didn't know, he should ask Rachel what they were into. Maybe she'd know). Writing was comfortable. It was something he knew he could do.

"The assignment was a paragraph." Blaine's face was carefully blank.

Kurt gripped the strap of his messenger bag. He wasn't used to being in trouble. "I know, I just feel quite strongly about the character, and I had a lot to say. Wasn't it good?" He was pretty sure that paper would have gotten him a solid B in even Professor Martin's class, but you never knew.

Blaine was biting his lip now, and after looking Kurt squarely in the eye for a second, he set the paper on the desk with a sigh. He leaned back, hands behind him on the desk (and Kurt was taller, and Blaine's eyes were so nice, and _stop I have a job to do and possibly I'm going to fail high school English at age twenty-five and then I'll die of shame_). "That's really not it. Kurt..." He tapped his fingers on the paper. "This is easily a college level piece. Your paper was too. I'll be honest, the first thing I did when I read this was check to see it wasn't lifted from somewhere online."

"I didn't cheat." There was some bite to the words because - although he knew it sort of wasn't Blaine's fault and while _cheater_ might not be the word, there was a certain lack of truth element to the whole thing - it still stung. Especially from Blaine, who he'd spent what felt like forever hopelessly crushing on, like the teenager he was meant to be. "I wrote it."

"I know." He nodded, his jaw relaxing a little. "I did check as much as I could, and I believe that, or we wouldn't be having this conversation here. We'd be having it in the principal's office."

Kurt shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "So, then... why are we having it?" He hadn't been able to decide what to call Blaine out loud (Blaine felt right, and he knew the students in drama club and choir did, but he'd only been there a short time and it felt a little more personal than he felt comfortable with) so he'd settled for nothing at all.

Blaine gathered the papers off his desk and reached for the shoulder bag (brown, extremely stylish, expensive looking but not too much for a teacher) on the back of his chair. "I have to grab something from the main office. Walk with me?"

"Sure."

Most students were either in the cafeteria or taking advantage of the sun, so the hallways were far easier to navigate than Kurt usually found. Blaine glanced over at him. "I hope you realize that my suspicion is actually a compliment."

He scoffed. "You thought I plagiarized."

"I thought your ideas and comparisons were so thoughtful that they wouldn't commonly be written by a high school senior. I'm glad to be wrong." He took a moment to nod at a man in the doorway of one of the classrooms, waved to a student who had yelled his name, and continued. "Some of the ideas you brought forth in that paper... wouldn't have been at all out of place in an upper division literature class. You're a very talented writer, Kurt."

"Thank you."

"I can't help but hope that you're planning to use that." He pushed open the glass door of the main office, headed over to the wall that housed the teachers' mailboxes.

"What do you mean?"

"Are you planning to go to college?"

This again. "I - I hadn't really thought about it. I mean, my dad's a mechanic, and-"

"You should." Blaine shook his head. "I mean - what I mean is that I think you have a gift, and there's always ways to work on the money. I know of several great programs, and I'd be happy to write you a recommendation. Although I'm sure the teachers at your school in Ohio would be in a better position to speak on your behalf."

"I'll - I'll let you know."

"Yes." He separated a paper from the envelopes he'd pulled out of his mailbox. "One more thing. I don't know if you know this, but I was doing my masters at NYU, in music education."

"Oh?"

"I have a friend in the masters literature program, and he sent me an email - they're offering a new scholarship fund; it starts next Spring. Obviously you'd have to apply, and I don't know your family situation, but..." He pressed the papers into Kurt's hand. "Even in the short time you've been in my class, I've seen that you're a thoughtful, promising young writer. I hope you don't let that go to waste, whether you decide to continue your education or not."

His eyes were wide, genuine and caring, and ridiculous crush aside, Kurt felt like he might tear up. To have this, at eighteen, would have meant the world to him. To have a teacher recognize a talent, even just care about his future, would have made high school so much more bearable. His dad had been the one to push, the one to march into the principal's office and fight for his son's right to be able to walk down the hallway in safety, but there had been no teacher in that school who had seemed to really care beyond making sure no one set fire to anything. Whatever their reasons - and Kurt could certainly see, even then, how one might want to emotionally detach from working at West Lima High - they had never made a gesture equal to even a fraction of Blaine's.

"Thank you," he said quietly.

Blaine patted him on the shoulder. "You're welcome. And now I'd better go, and you'd better get to lunch." He eyed the papers. "Think it over, okay?"

He nodded, still a little choked up, and was halfway out to the hall when Blaine called his name again.

"Hey, Kurt. Forgive me, but where did you say you went to high school?"

"West Lima High." _Once again proving that subterfuge is not my strong point._

Blaine had a more guarded look in his face now. "Lima? Wow, I went to school in Westerville. I was even in their Glee Club - Rachel says you're musical and have quite a voice."

"Where in Westerville?"

"Dalton, you won-"

"You were a Warbler!" It makes perfect sense, visualizing those two-stepping private-school boys he'd found on YouTube one night all those years ago, wondering if every school was as devoid of music as his. _And he'd look great in a blazer._

Blaine looked shocked for a moment, then composed himself. "I was," he said slowly, "but I didn't think you'd have heard of it. The school closed quite a few years ago - reopened under a different name."

"Right." _Shit._ "My, um... cousin went there."

"Really, what year was he? Would I know him?"

He gripped tighter onto the strap of his bag, backing away. "I have to go Rachel. I mean, I'm supposed to meet Rachel. And Nathan, and Natalie and... some people. For lunch."

Blaine blinked. "Of course. I'll see you in class."

"Yes. You will see me. In class. Okay, bye."

He seriously hoped that Sam hadn't been watching that.

(As it happens, Sam hadn't, but Kurt also hadn't noticed Blaine's eyes on him as he left, the moment of confusion and discomfort on his face as Kurt turned the corner and left his sight.)

* * *

_McKinley High School Academic Record Search History: B. Anderson (Dept: Eng)_  
_  
Kurt Hummel, West Lima High _

* * *

He had formulated a plan. It had originally been Plan B, but when his attempt to sit at the popular table (a feat that had taken a significant amount of daring and had almost made him throw up when the jocks approached, even if all they'd done was flank several of the cheerleaders, including Quinn, when they asked him if he was lost, because the loser tables were over there) failed spectacularly, he had to resort to drastic measures.

Rather than just showing up at their hangout spot (somewhere around Plan D), he picked up a flyer for a nearby club. It was usually twenty-one and over, but it opened to eighteen on nights when some guest bands were playing, and one of those nights happened to be that Thursday. Clubs were casual, he'd heard Quinn mention it to Santana Lopez in the hall, so he knew some of that crowd were planning on going. He could casually hang out with them, and even if they didn't really want to be friends at least he might be able to overhear something useful.

When he told Mercedes about this, she offered her help, and Tina was quick to add that she and Mike would be glad to come as well.

"You just want to watch me humiliate myself in front of a large group of people," he accused. He was trying to avoid thinking about other elements of it - putting himself in the path of the jocks outside a school hallway - because somewhere in him the idea still set his teeth on edge. It wasn't that he was afraid, exactly, he was just... apprehensive. He wanted this to work, this sort of vague almost plan. And he wanted to remain intact. "I'll bet Seymour Hersh never had to deal with this."

"No, just danger associated with uncovering significant global conspiracies and cover-ups." Tina flopped down on his couch, yelped, and felt behind her cushion, pulling out the offending hardback book. "Come on, I know he's your hero, but the two situations are exactly similar."

"I wasn't suggesting that they were. He's one of the most influential -"

"I'm sure even he had to start somewhere. Come on, we promise not to cramp your style." She waved the book. " _Pre-Calculus for Dummies_?"

He shrugged. "I have to at least look intelligent."

"Surely there's an easier way." She set the book down on the coffee table. "Just tell them who you are."

"The administration wanted me to keep it quiet. Sue probably."

"Does that woman have something on _everyone_?" Mercedes moved his notebooks off the armchair (it was a small apartment, there was only so much space). "I know it's your dream, honey, but you couldn't _pay me_ to be seventeen again... who's Blaine Anderson?"

He stopped halfway through dicing carrots. "What?"

She held up his notebook, where Blaine's name was written along with his own in the corner.

"He's my English teacher, why?"

"Is it traditional to write your teacher's name with you period number on notebooks?"

He held his chin deliberately high. "It is if you want it to be found if you lose it."

"Okay... so talk me through this." The book was flipped open to the last page, where Kurt had spent a particularly boring Government lecture practicing his cursive. And Blaine Anderson was just a very nice name, aesthetically. So he'd written it a few times. It wasn't like there were hearts, or anything (he'd been very careful to rip that page out).

"Does someone have a crush on their teacher?" Tina asked, delighted. "I want to see him. Hand me my phone. I'll google."

"No," he said firmly, snatching it off the table. "Stop it. Bl - Mr. Anderson is my teacher, and he's a very good one, and even on the off-chance that I did think anything of him beyond that -"

"Oh, come on, Kurt -"

" - it wouldn't matter, because I'm doing my _job_. And part of my job is making him believe that I'm eighteen years old. So if there's any reciprocity there we may have a bigger problem." Both women were silent. "Okay, now, Mercedes, you can work your magic with the onions, and Tina can help me with the salad."

* * *

For the next few days, though, Kurt didn't think he was imagining that Blaine was acting a little weirdly. He wasn't unfriendly or unprofessional, as such, but he did ask a few questions (about Ohio, which Kurt could understand, and then about his family and reasons for moving) that raised red flags. He toyed with the idea that Blaine might be suspicious, dialed back his class participation a little so as to blend in. But letting Rachel resume her status as most active class participant didn't do anything to calm his fears, or to stop the tiny part of his brain saying _he's interested in you. Maybe he just finds you interesting._ And surely the paper had done a good enough job covering his tracks that it wouldn't be that easy for a few slips to give him up?

He managed to put it out of his mind and got ready for the concert later that week, trying to remember what had constituted popular in high school and hoping he'd end the evening largely unscathed.

* * *

The club was crowded, the band slightly dwarfed by the noise, and he took a moment to wish that he'd joined Rachel for her bi-monthly Streisand marathon rather than thrown himself into this.

He saw Quinn, Santana, and a couple of other cheerleaders on the dance floor, while their usual jock counterparts were slouched around a table near the front. He decided to get an overpriced bottle of water before beginning his offensive, and fought his way over to the bar - seven odd years in New York had been good for _something_.

No amount of practice barhopping with friends, however, could make the bartender pay even the slightest amount of attention to his end of the bar, and five minutes later, after he'd finally made a disgruntled noise and resolved to work up to as much of a hissy fit as he needed, he heard a voice over his shoulder.

"I'll bet Duke Orsino didn't have this problem."

Blaine had an empty beer bottle in his hand, his grin sincere but not loose.

Kurt raised an eyebrow, mentally reviewing his outfit for flaws. "A lame Shakespeare comparison? On a night off? Really?"

His smile twitched. "It was off the cuff, I know, sorry. Next time I'll prepare... Also, you should know that it took fifteen minutes for me to get my drinks from this end of the bar - I recommend moving." He paused and his face became serious. "I should tell you, though, that in the interests of legality, I have to report any underage students that I see drinking tonight. I've already busted one." He held Kurt's eye for what seemed like an extra beat, and Kurt's heart might of done some sort of gymnastic maneuver.

"Never fear, just water for me." He let another impatient patron take his place at the bar; good luck to him. He waved a hand towards the stage, where the band whose name he'd never taken the trouble to remember was trying valiantly to be heard. "I take it you're a fan?"

He shrugged. "Not specifically, I was meeting a friend. He works for them, he's a lawyer." As though summoned, a man appeared over Blaine's shoulder, looking totally out of place in an expensive suit (he'd guess Calvin Klein, although a couple of seasons old), although at least he'd removed his jacket and tie.

"Does it really take this long to get a drink here? I thought you wanted to ask me about having Annie look up that stude-"

"Kurt, meet Wes," Blaine interrupted loudly. "Wes is one of my oldest friends. Wes, Kurt is a new student of mine."

Wes, rather serious looking, offered his hand. "It's nice to meet you, Kurt. Tell me, does Blaine still jump on the furniture in class when he gets excited?"

Blaine groaned, set his bottle on the tray of a passing waitress with a smile. "Thank you, Wes, for that charming insight into my teenage self."

"I just feel like your students should know," his friend said innocently, some of the seriousness gone for the moment. "Especially if you're really going to listen to your dad and move to Denver-"

"You're leaving?" Kurt said quickly, and when their heads turned he got the sense that both of them had forgotten he was there.

"Perhaps," Blaine said lightly. "Anyway, we'd better let you get back to your night. Come on, _Wesley_. It was nice to see you, Kurt."

As they left he thought he heard Wes repeat his name, but he shook it off, squared his shoulders and walked over to the table where Quinn was now holding court.

"...so I said what do you think this is, kindergarten? It's like she's from another planet."

"I met someone from another planet once," the blonde next to her volunteered. "He had big red hair and a big nose, but I don't think he went tanning much. His favorite food was burgers, and he came to my birthday party."

"Sure, Brit," Santana said next to her, taking her hand and shooting a deathly look at one of the guys, who had snickered. "But Quinn's talking about a different planet. Planet loser."

"That must be a sad planet," Brittany said quietly. "I hope they win someday."

"Hi, guys," Kurt said, bobbing his head a little to the beat. "I guess you guys are fans too, huh?" He sounded awfully uncomfortable and awkward, even to his own ears, but plan B was born of nothing if not desperation. "I think they're sounding great tonight, don't you?"

"Are you lost again, little boy blue?" Santana managed to look simultaneously irritated and like she couldn't care less, a skill that Kurt couldn't begin to fathom. "The horn blowing happens over there."

He wasn't really sure if it was a gay joke or just a ill-thought out remark on his appearance (or if one was better than the other), so he smiled. "Just thought I'd say hi. We seem to like the same music."

"This band is totally out," Quinn proclaimed. "Completely lame."

"Of course," Kurt vamped, "that's what I meant. It's so painful to hear them butcher it. Totally, um..."

"Drassy," Santana offered, eyes narrowed.

Apparently that was a new piece of slang. "Yeah, totally. Where's the afterparty, so we can get away from this... drass."

When the table broke out into laughter, something in him snapped, and he didn't stay to hear Quinn's reply.

He'd never really put himself out there in high school, never tried to get to know many people because he'd known exactly what they thought of him, and to know that not much had changed... Whatever the reason for hating him, teenagers were still _awful_, and he wanted to go home and drown his sorrows in the beautiful cheesecake waiting in his freezer. Finn had better not have come over to escape his roommates again, because Kurt needed that cake. He needed his couch, that cake, and a fork. That was all. He didn't need teenagers to validate him. He'd do it by himself.

He ran headfirst into something solid, and when he backed away he realized it was a person. A blonde person, to be exact, who had spent more time watching him recently than anyone really should. "Sam? Oh, god, don't tell me Sue's having you tail me twenty-four hours a day now."

Sam blinked. "What?... Oh, nah, man, I'm here for the band. The drummer's a friend of a friend of mine. Name's Shark, which is a funny story actually, because he's only got one -"

"Sam, sorry, I had to run back for my purse -"

Kurt did a double take. "Mercedes?"

"Kurt!" She bit her lip, and he fought the urge to compliment her dress (which looked gorgeous with her skin tone) because this was something he felt like he should have been filled in on. "Hi."

"Hi."

Sam looked back and forth between them. "Well, um, I'm gonna go see if I can grab us a table -"

Mercedes reeled Kurt in as soon as his blonde head was out of sight. "Kurt, what the hell are you doing here?"

"I told you, this is the club I had to go to tonight, to get information." He deflated slightly at the reminder. "It turns out though that I'm terrible at this, so there was no point." When her face softened, he remembered something else. "Speaking of people who are terrible, why didn't you tell me about this?"

"What?" She toyed with her purse. "It's just a friendly dinner." She looked over his shoulder. "Sam's waving us over there, come sit down, have a drink."

"I can't," he reminded her. "I'm eighteen, remember?"

She rolled her eyes. "Right. Well, at least come over and sit for a few minutes. This is going to be awkward as hell, I don't know what I was thinking."

"Why did you -" He stopped, seeing her face, vowed to get the story later. Because he really hadn't seen this coming, not after the break up. "Right. I don't want to be a third wheel, though."

"I think we could use a third wheel at first," she offered quietly. "For extra stability."

He shrugged, followed her over to a booth in the corner, which seemed to be being vacated by some people that Sam must know. They all looked very happy, at least, and at two of them hugged him on their way past. They'd left some food out on the table, most of which disappeared with a waitress, and Sam checked with them before he ordered some snacks.

It was excruciatingly awkward, even after the food got there, and Kurt found himself picking at a brownie sitting on a napkin next to him. Within a couple of minutes, trying to make idle chit-chat and silently asking Mercedes to please let him go, he'd eaten half and was starting to feel a little weird.

The brownie was _delicious_, though. Maybe he was just tired.

* * *

Things Kurt Hummel remembered:

Stage lights flashing, dancing and having the time of his life.

"You know what's a weird word!? Fork."

People laughing, patting him on the back.

Mercedes' voice urging him into a cab, taking his keys and opening his door from very far away.

Sam apologizing. A lot.

Feeling hungry as soon as he was home, getting out his beloved half cheesecake and calling Finn to tell him how awesome everything was, even if teenagers sort of sucked.

Looking down, holding his heavy fork, to find that _someone had eaten his entire cheesecake_.

* * *

He wasn't so much hungover the next day as incredibly confused, and after showering, calling Mercedes, and accepting that he wasn't going to make it to first period, he felt properly himself and completely annoyed.

Sam insisted that he'd had no idea his friends had left him a brownie ("They're sorry too, man, I told them, that was some pretty strong stuff, could have happened to anyone"), and added that the YouTube video wasn't even that funny, anyway. Kurt had bitched him out, because leaving things like that around just seemed incredibly stupid, aside from anything else, but he just really didn't have the energy to deal with it for long.

He was pretty sure Blaine had been gone by the time he'd had his little episode, because he seemed confused as to why everyone kept snickering, especially when one of the guys loudly compared a character's decision to "a _pot_ calling the kettle black".

He had pretty much resigned himself to a failure, was working up the courage to call Sue and tell her to get someone else, when a locker door closed in front of him and he came face to face with a red slushie.

His flinch was instant, his eyes snapped shut, and he felt his pulse speed up. _Oh god not again please not again ple-_

"Kurt?"

He opened his eyes.

"Finn?"

* * *

It turned out that Finn had had a _brilliant idea_. Apparently it had been forming for a while, and he'd had everything sort of ready, but had mostly decided not to do it until last night, when Kurt had called and seemed kind of crazy.

"So I figured why not, you know? I can help you out, it's not like it'll interfere with my work schedule that much, and maybe I'll even learn something."

"Finn," Kurt said patiently, or as close to patiently as he could manage, "the paper had to go through all kinds of stuff to get me here. They're not going to just let you walk in and take classes."

"Yeah," his brother nodded. "But I figure I have a few days at least. I talked to the counselor, told her about getting sick. She cried, said she'd talk to the principal, and meanwhile I could audit classes for a few days. I brought her my transcripts, and a letter from my coach, figure I might see if I can catch the last game of the season, if they need people. I'm not that much older than the oldest senior here, and I only have a few credits to make up. I could take them this summer."

"That really isn't how it works," he snapped, increasingly frustrated on behalf of logic. "As thrilled as I am that you seem to want to continue your education, Finn, you can't lie -"

"I didn't," Finn beamed. "I only told them the truth, and I even had Carole call in to confirm. I'm auditing classes for summer school."

"What has happened to the education system?" Kurt muttered to himself as he stalked to his locker, dodged a falling prom poster (BUY SOON! NOT MUCH TIME LEFT!) and glared at his resident make-out couple, who fled. "Don't they have any security measures..."

"I thought I could help," Finn said quietly behind him. "I know you have a job to do, so I thought that maybe... you know, I was pretty good at like... hanging out with people in high school. I just..."

Kurt sighed the sigh of the extremely long suffering older brother and turned on his heel. "What are you planning to do?"

* * *

For all his faults, Kurt had to admit that Finn knew how to make friends. By the end of the day he and Puck seemed to have become inseparable, and by the following week, his last official days auditing, Quinn had invited Kurt to go shopping in a manner that he was fairly certain wasn't some elaborate ruse to abandon him to die in the middle of a forest. She had even moved her lips into what could have been a smile, although when Rachel had approached she'd let out a unkind snort and moved away, scattering freshmen left and right. He had no idea what Finn had said, and he probably didn't _want_ to know, but he counted it a success.

His only moment of pause occurred the morning of this great shopping adventure, when Rachel bounced up to him in the hall.

"We're still on for tonight, right?" Her sweater was bright yellow, and there was an honest-to-god pink sequinned pony on it. "My dads are queueing Julie Andrews' entire filmography up on Netflix, so we can pick and choose which to start with. My vote is obviously _Victor/Victoria_, but I know you're partial to -"

"Rachel, I have to cancel."

To her everlasting credit, Rachel tried to hide her disappointment. "Oh," she said with fake nonchalance. "That's fine, we can reschedule. Something come up at home?"

"No, I'm going... shopping with Quinn. I don't know what time we'll be done." He debated not telling her, but this seemed the smartest way. It wasn't like he was going in disguise, and news travelled ridiculously fast at this school (which reminded him, he wondered if Rachel had heard about Toby and Linda yet).

"You're..." Rachel hugged her notebook close to her chest. "Okay, why? Is something wrong? Did she do something?"

"No. She just... invited me."

"Is this something to do with Finn?"

On his first day Finn had asked Rachel for directions to the gym, and from that moment on he had been hearing about little else. They'd eventually settled on the story that their parents were family friends, but Rachel continued to bring him up. "No, Rachel. I don't know. I just thought it might be fun."

"More fun than hanging out with me." Rachel held her chin up, a move that Kurt could see was meant to hide the hurt in her eyes. "Fine, I see."

"Rach, that's not what I -"

"No, Kurt, it's fine. I have to go practice. NYADA has very exacting standards, I've been slacking recently on my vocal warm-ups thanks to unnecessary social entanglements."

She flounced down the hall, sparkly headband held high. Kurt didn't follow, and instead felt a sinking feeling in his stomach that remained for the rest of the day.

* * *

Shopping, it turned out, meant browsing boutique stores with Quinn, Santana and the blonde girl attached to her hip, who he learned was named Brittany. They didn't seem to be looking for anything in particular, just flicked through racks and tried things on. He picked out a few items for himself in one store, but when it was revealed there was only one changing room he waved for Quinn to go first.

She entered, held the door open. "You coming in?"

"What?" he spluttered.

"You're gay," she said bluntly, her face blank, and it seemed more statement than question.

He gripped his hangers tightly. It was one thing to look like he did, talk like he did - there were expectations attached to him from the start. But coming out to the social queen of a high school, even one in a relatively progressive state, seemed like a far bigger deal than telling Rachel over yogurt. He couldn't forget coming out the first time, how being himself had cost him even more of security, his sense of safety. "...yes."

She nodded. "Cool, come in."

As soon as the door was closed she peeled her shirt off, and even though he wasn't trying to look he caught a glimpse of stretch marks in the mirror. When she caught his gaze he looked away, but she didn't seem all that surprised.

"A piece of advice - it turns out that the pill is far more effective than "trust me" as a method of birth control."

"I'm sorry, I didn't -"

She shrugged. "Everyone knows. I'm surprised Princess Barbra didn't tell you. She likes to yap about things like that."

He shrugged the button-up shirt on over his own shirt, hands working on the belt of the pair of pants he'd found. "I guess she figured it was your story to tell."

Quinn smiled, a different smile from the smirk he was used to, and there was a knock on the door. "Hurry up," Santana yelled. "Britts and I wants to get our sparkle on."

"You can wait 'til we're done," Quinn shot back. "Last time I changed with you the two of you practically had sex against the wall."

"What can I say," Santana's disembodied voice purred, "my baby looks good in leather."

Quinn just rolled her eyes as the sound of an enthusiastic response from Brittany floated into the cubicle.

"Wait," Kurt said. "So they're..."

"Together?" Quinn asked. "Yeah. You didn't notice? Pretty much anywhere, if you'll let them." She took in Kurt's face and her brow softened. "You didn't come from a great school, huh?"

"No, not really." He moved to hang the shirt back up as she slipped into a dress and turned for him to pull up the zipper. "It wasn't... considered okay to be gay there."

"Well, you shouldn't have that problem here." She nodded her head towards the door. "Unless you aren't a fan of watching those two making out in the cafeteria, in which case I'd recommend making yourself scarce or bringing some kind of spray bottle."

He laughed, and her answering giggle was quiet and charming, so different from the Quinn he saw in the halls or sipping a beer in an abandoned parking lot.

"So... what is the problem with McKinley?" he asked half-seriously, pulling a piece of lint of the black dress.

She tilted her head, considered. "I guess the same as anywhere else. Probably even the same as your school, in a way." When he raised an eyebrow she met his eyes in the mirror. "People are trying to make it through, and that has to come second to everything else."

As she looked at the dress from all angles, hands on her hips and shoulders thrown back, he thought that Quinn Fabray was a hell of a lot more insightful than most people he knew, and a lot more intelligent than people probably gave her credit for.

* * *

Quinn said the whole group would all probably hang out at the lot sometime that weekend, so he spent the following days sketching out his ideas for the article. He was starting to feel a little bad about the whole thing, but at least he knew that Sue wasn't particularly interested in the students' names, so he presumed they'd be redacted from the final piece; she was more interested in the source. He outlined as much as he could, worked his way through classes (where Blaine asked him a couple of questions about his grades in Ohio as well as some rather personal questions about his home life, not seeming all that surprised when Kurt avoided them), earned three extra laps around the track from Coach Bieste when she suggested that those with less than a six minute mile would struggle in college and he vehemently disagreed (in retrospect he was out of line, and he apologized, but he always hated laps and Sugar _would_put him in that class at the hottest time of the day. There wasn't enough sunscreen in the world...).

All was well until Saturday afternoon, when he got a text from Sam and missed calls from Sugar's desk and Sue's office at the same time.

He found out why just over an hour and a half later, when Sue threw a copy of tomorrow morning's _New York News_onto her desk in front of him.

_Students Caught in Drinking Scandal! Abandoned Lot Site of Drinking, Drugs and Teenage Lawbreaking!_

The cover featured a group of teens, faces blurred out, crowded around a trashcan fire with beer bottles in hand. He recognized Santana's posture (and clothes) on the far left, vodka bottle held aloft as she danced with two guys.

"Explain to me why," Sue hissed, and Sue was far scarier when she hissed than even when she screamed, "Explain why those assholes over at the Sun have a front page story on teen drinking at McKinley High School. Explain to me why I have been spending valuable money to make you look like a teenager while some idiot journalist with a baseball cap has _walked into their party and taken pictures._"

"Sue, I really -"

"No, Porcelain." She sat down set her long fingers together. " I plucked you from obscurity to get me a story. You have failed to _get me that story_, and I find myself very disappointed in you. What do you propose we do about this?"

"Ms. Sylvester, I -"

"No. I will _tell you_ what we are going to do about this. Because I have not shelled out all that money, and blackmailed that pathetic excuse for a principal within an inch of his life for you to come back empty handed." She reached into the drawer, and for an insane moment he thought she was going to shoot him. She pulled out a remote. "Luckily, that surfer boy I hired to keep an eye on the situation has been filing the tapes, and I had Becky stay last night to watch a few." She leaned forward. "Porcelain, I found you a new story."

The flatscreen on the wall came to life, a paused picture, obviously from his lapel cam, and he's pretty sure it's from just a couple of days ago. Blaine was leaning against his desk as the students talked in groups about the previous night's reading, and his eyes were focused intently just above the camera, on what had to be the wearer's face. On Kurt.

"Student Teacher Relations," Sue said with triumph, her eyes glinting. "How close is too close?"


	4. Chapter 4

He argued. He actually argued with Sue Sylvester, and it had gone about as well as he'd thought it would.

He'd said he wouldn't do it, wouldn't go out of his way to try and prompt some story to ruin a guy's life when there was absolutely no evidence of anything even a little unusual.

Sue queued up the DVD, her grin unsettling.

She'd had them splice together all of the moments, the weird questions, yes, but also every time Blaine had touched him on the shoulder, complimented his writing. Giving him the scholarship papers, telling him one day that he had a "vested interest" in seeing his students succeed, a thousand innocent things that were being taken out of context, that Sue was trying to twist into something more than just a teacher being good at his job.

"It happens, Porcelain," Sue told him, eyes icy calm. "It happens, there are -"

"Blaine isn't like that." He said firmly.

She lifted an eyebrow, an ugly smile forming on her face. "...'Blaine?'"

"He hasn't done anything wrong!"

"Why is he asking you all of those questions?"

"...I don't know." He'd been thinking it over, trying to understand. "But he isn't -"

"Let me make this clear, Porcelain." She was still in her chair, and he, on his feet across the room, felt a tenth of his size. "If you don't get me this story I will not only take you off the desk, I will ensure that no newspaper will ever let you come within twenty feet of a press pass or a reporter's pad ever again." Her fingers curled around the cup in front of her. "I have wasted a great deal of money on this, _your_ idea -"

"It wasn't my-"

"Do not interrupt me if you value your sanity." He'd always thought that Sue Sylvester's bark must be worse than her bite, but with her eyes trained on him like that, he wasn't so sure. "I have spent a great deal of money trying to make this story work, and now that's shot to hell, I will see you pursue this story. This story, for however many weeks that school plans to continue trapping those teenage animals in its halls. You don't even need to tell them; as far as they're concerned you're still doing a follow up piece, even though you got it ripped out from under you. And when you have it you will bring it to me, and if it is not what I asked for..."

"I can find you a better story!" He couldn't do it, he wouldn't.

"No." Sue looked at him calmly. "You can't. And you won't. However big a mistake it was entrusting you with this, you will bring me this story, or you will pack up your tiny office and disappear into obscurity. I don't have time to waste. This is your assignment, Hummel. It's this or it's nothing. "

He'd kept trying, pitched whatever he could think of: a feature on petty theft (he knew Santana wore those pants at least twice with the tags on and then returned them), an expose on cafeteria food... anything but this.

She hadn't even blinked, not that he could see, and had ended the meeting with a renewal of her promise: he had until school let out and then he was finished. In every single meaning of the word.

It was everything he'd wanted - not always, but since he'd opened up to the idea that he didn't have to stay the same person forever. He wanted to love music but not to be a slave to it, grow to hate it. What he wanted was to be the person who found the news, made people aware of what was going on in a world they so often - through manipulation or choice - closed their eyes to.

And he was smart enough to know that Sue meant it. This was his chance, and if he blew it, his name would be mud. She could make it happen without batting an eyelash, and even her enemies (and, if the rumors were true, she had many) wouldn't concern themselves with him. Sue was a very rich woman who could make things happen, and being someone she liked would put him in a very, very good position in an uncertain field.

This chance was all he had, and all he had to do to take it was ruin Blaine Anderson's life beyond reparation.

And so he agreed, and then he walked out.

He said, "okay," walked out, but as he got into the elevator he made a promise.

He would not do it. He would not ruin Blaine - Mr. Anderson - Mr. A - whatever he called him, he would not ruin his life, not for some odd behavior twisted into something ugly, not when he was pretty sure that he was one of the best people he'd ever known.

Putting his personal feelings aside, if such a thing was completely possible, Blaine was a man who was good at his job, who cared about his students in the way that a teacher was supposed to care, who went above and beyond the call of duty to ensure that they had every tool at their disposal to reach their potential.

He would not do it.

But he would use the time, he would find a story, and Sue Sylvester would have her goddamn feature article.

His jaw set, he texted Tina and Mercedes, told them he wouldn't be able to make it over for dinner. He had work to do.

* * *

He got a note in French class, a slip in the middle of a lecture on words relating to restaurants ("Je voudrais manger la poisson. Qu'est-ce que tu veux faire? Tu es faim?" could only be sounded out so many times before insanity set in) that told him to report to the office immediately and to bring his things.

Kurt was already exhausted. Staying up for most of the night to brainstorm a way out of this mess had left him asleep on the couch, and in his haste to get to class on time he'd knocked his pin - a tiny bird with the camera at its eye - into his bathroom sink. Sam had pronounced it dead on sight, and had told Kurt it would take him the morning to come up with a replacement. That, when added to the fact that he'd completely forgotten to do the math worksheet and Rachel's avoidance of him in the hallways before school, was just the cherry on top of what was already looking to be a colossally shitty week. He didn't know what the hell it could be. Maybe Sue had a moment of startling clarity and had decided to scrap the whole thing? He could be back on his copy-editing desk by lunch and, at that moment, it seemed as though that might be the best way this could end.

Pushing open the principal's door to find Blaine standing in front of the desk, face serious, elevated his alarm level to outright panic. _He knows about the story. He thinks I'm trying to ruin his life. He hates me._

"Mr Hummel, good. I would ask you to take a seat, but I plan to keep this short." Principal Figgins looked deeply displeased, squirming a little in his chair. "I want you both to be aware of the situation. Mr. Anderson has just come to me with some information -"

"I've been looking into-" Blaine started, his gaze firmly in front of him, but stopped when Figgins held up a hand.

"Mr. Anderson has taken the time to look into your academic record, as well as pursuing other avenues of enquiry, and he found some discrepancies. He has brought them to my attention because he was uncomfortable with what he found."

He opened his mouth, closed it again, not sure what to say to that. Figgins knew perfectly well who he was, but knowing that Blaine had been looking into him, seeing a file on the desk that proved Blaine hadn't trusted him - whether he was warranted in that or not - was, for some reason, enough to make something in him feel a little broken. It stung.

"What did you find?" he said quietly, and Blaine's gaze slid to him.

He hesitated. "You graduated from West Lima the year before I did, according to the yearbook of a friend of mine, which makes you around my age, possibly older. Definitely not eighteen, and definitely not a high school student." His voice was level, a hard edge to it. "You went to NYU - or at least, a couple of old websites listed your name as a part of a few clubs there, although those would probably be harder to prove. From there... I don't know." He shrugged. "That was all I could find."

He felt a minute amount of satisfaction at the fact that the tech people had managed to make him nearly invisible, but it didn't help much. "So what do you think?"

"I don't know." Blaine's eyes stayed on his. "I know your developed writing style makes a lot more sense. I know that letting a twenty-something year old man sit in my classroom pretending to be eighteen without knowing why isn't an option."

Kurt was almost ready to tell him, then, make that look of distrust go away at least for a moment because it hurt to have Blaine look at him like that. Not like a student anymore, and not even with the suspicion he could now recognize in retrospect for what it was, rather than what Sue had tried to twist it into.

Figgins spoke up. "Mr. Anderson, this is why I called you both in here. I can assure you that the administration is already aware of your findings, and Mr. Hummel's presence on campus is to continue as it has been."

"But I -"

He looked nervous again. "I must ask you not to speak to anyone about this, and to continue treating him as you would any student for the duration of his time at McKinley."

Blaine looked floored. "Shouldn't I know -"

"I don't wish to talk on the subject further. Goodbye."

Blaine was far too polite to object to the shooing motion being directed at him from behind the desk, but that didn't stop him pausing on his way out, looking at Kurt like he'd never seen him before. "Seriously?"

Kurt just shrugged, and Blaine shook his head. Once he was gone Figgins knitted his fingers together on the desk.

"Are you... ah... do you have a..."

"A what?"

"A _wire_," he whispered, looked around as though at any moment someone might overhear in the otherwise empty room.

"Not right now," Kurt told him.

"Ah... good, yes, very good. I would... um, I would appreciate it if this little hiccup didn't get back... back to Ms. Sylvester." He busied himself with a pile of empty envelopes. "Good luck, at least you should find the subject easier to cover now that the other newspaper has started the rolling ball."

"Ball rolling," Kurt said skeptically.

"Yes, yes. Please tell Ms. Sylvester that we're doing everything in our power to help."

Kurt hitched his bag back up over his shoulder. "God," he rolled his eyes, "does she have dirt on _everyone?!_"

Figgins' splutter faded into the chatter of the hallway as he made his way to what was sure to be an awkward hour of English .

* * *

It made perfect sense, of course, which might have been part of what Kurt found so irritating and, well... hurtful about it. As much as he'd insisted to Sue that Blaine's interest in him, the weird questions that he couldn't explain, weren't anything to do with any feelings on Blaine's part, knowing that it had all been in service of finding out who he really was felt like a punch in the gut. It was what he'd expected, what he'd known, but that didn't make hearing about it any less painful. And while on a logical level, he knew that the Blaine he'd seen for much of his time at McKinley had been straightforward, a teacher who cared about his students and wanted them to succeed, everything seemed different now in hindsight.

It was entirely illogical, and also entirely horrible. But it didn't change anything.

He stayed awake that night, tossing and turning, and reminded himself that it didn't matter. Blaine and the school still thought he was reporting on the first story, Sue thought he was reporting on Blaine (and telling her his cover was blown would just pull him out without a chance at saving the situation), and he was actually still in search of his story.

And if the time came and he didn't have anything he'd just tell her that Blaine knew, call Figgins in to verify and take whatever punishment she decided to dish out.

Blaine had done himself a favor, really, because now even if he'd ever wanted to, Kurt wouldn't have been able to do the piece, not in any meaningful way.

He somehow doubted that Blaine would appreciate the silver lining, but at least the whole thing would be over soon. Just a few more classes, making a show of turning up to take his finals, finding his story and then he'd be free.

He'd forgotten completely about Prom.

* * *

Well, he hadn't _forgotten_, exactly, but with everything going on he'd sort of pushed all that to the side, along with his guilt about (now needlessly) abandoning Rachel and everything about being back in school that still made him uncomfortable, even with it becoming his new normal.

Prom posters and banners hadn't really seemed all that important, and it wasn't as though he had either an inclination to attend or plans to find a date, although Mercedes had kindly offered her services if he wanted to impress.

It all seemed like it might be moot, however, when Kate, one of Quinn's friends (and part of the group that seemed to have learned nothing from their brush with the law) came up to him in the quad, close to tears and groping for his arm.

"It's terrible, Kurt," she sniffled miserably. "Just terrible..."

He hadn't gotten any texts from work, and his phone hadn't alerted him to breaking news from any major networks, but clearly something terrible had happened so he pulled her over to a bench and handed her a tissue from his bag. "What is it? What happened!? Is everyone okay?!"

"Yes," she sobbed. 'No, I mean... it's terrible for everyone. We're going to have to cancel prom."

He let his hand fall from her shoulder. "What?"

"It's true." Her eyes were impossibly wide. "The Mustangs took our prom theme, and it's too late to get all new decorations. Their prom is the night before ours; we can't look like we're copying them."

"Does it really _matter_?" he asked honestly, and knew he had made a mistake when Kate's hand shot to her chest, fingers gripping at the material of her uniform like he'd just suggested that they pick up kitten-prodding as a hobby.

Puck and Santana appeared over her shoulder, and he was grateful for the distraction.

"Dude, did you hear?" Puck asked, his fist balled up, smacking against his hand for emphasis. "I swear, those Mustang punks need to be taught a lesson. Got half a mind to go over there right now and show them who's king."

"I'm not sure that's -" Kurt began diplomatically, but Santana was having none of it. She snapped her fingers at a group of freshmen on the bench next to them, causing them to scatter, and flopped down dramatically.

"Whatever, Noah. Like you'd risk playing in the all-star game over some stupid dance."

Brittany pulled her arm. "Does this mean we won't get to dress up and dance? I like dancing, and my dress makes me fly."

Quinn, approaching with large sunglasses shielding her eyes, looked solemn. "We need a prom," she said definitively. "We sure as hell need to get something for spending four years in this hole, and I for one want my crown. It totally sucks." She glanced over at Kurt. "Like Kurt said, it's totally drassy."

"I thought we didn't -" someone started, but Quinn just slipped her glasses back into her hair and surveyed the group.

"Drassy," Puck nodded to his friends. "Totally, man." Everyone agreed quickly.

"Hold up," Santana snapped a moment later. "Who said you're winning the crown, Fabray? I -"

"It doesn't matter," Kate shrieked, "there's no theme and no prom, and everything sucks!"

"Don't you just need a new theme?" Kurt asked cautiously, and the entire group looked at him like he'd just invented fire.

Clearly that college education had been good for something.

* * *

By lunch the prom committee, their advisor, and Kurt had convened in a classroom, and it turned out that the committee mostly consisted of Quinn and her friends, plus Puck and several cronies.

The advisor, of course, was Blaine.

"Do I hear any ideas for the new theme?" Blaine asked the room again, his eyes surveying the silent students and then briefly glancing over Kurt, just like he'd done every time they'd been in a room together since the meeting in Figgins' office.

It had been difficult to read him, and Kurt wasn't exactly an expert, but he thought that Blaine had been struggling with something. Immediately after the meeting he'd been outwardly curious, then distant - not tending to call on Kurt in class if he could help it, an edge of something almost approaching frustration whenever they spoke. He'd caught Blaine watching him more than once: not in any way he found uncomfortable, but like he was trying to piece together everything, reconcile what he now knew to be true, and had long suspected, with what he saw. And Kurt didn't know whether the things he imagined he saw in brief flashes over the last few days - a new kind of interest, a connection, respect, maybe? - were real, or just wishful thinking.

"How about Paris?" Kate suggested, and Kurt immediately stopped staring at Blaine's face.

"No," Quinn said. "That was the theme of my birthday party."

"Quinn," Blaine chastised, "don't be dismissive."

"How about Transformers?" Puck offered, pounding the fist of the guy beside him.

"I think-" Blaine tried.

"Dinosaurs!" Brittany declared, and Santana echoed the sentiment, throwing a book at Puck when he laughed.

"Perhaps a little more recent," Blaine suggested, rolling up the sleeves of his button down, and god help Kurt, he made a sweater-vest look good. His face lit up, his arms lifting in excitement. "Ooh, how about _Under The Sea_? _Or Once Upon a Time_?" He frowned at the classroom wide groan. "Well, we need to come up with something, and it can't use a lot more decorations than we have already-"

"Kurt," Puck said suddenly.

Kate looked over at him. "That's not a _theme_, stupid."

"No, I mean... Kurt had the idea to change it. Maybe he'll have another idea."

Quinn cleared her throat. "He's right," she announced. "Kurt?"

The entire room was looking at him again, even Blaine with those distinctive eyebrows raised.

"I..." he trailed off. He looked over at Blaine again, around the room, then back to Blaine. "How about... famous couples? 'Meant For Each Other'. People could dress up as their favorite historical or literary couple... or something."

All eyes fell to Quinn, who nodded after a beat. "I like it," she said. "All those in favor?"

Everyone raised their hands, and Blaine pronounced the meeting over, told the committee when he'd need to see them again to hammer out details. In the rush to get to the cafeteria, they ended up reaching the door at the same time.

Blaine touched his arm lightly. "I need to talk to you for a moment." He stepped away from the door, considered Kurt for a moment, then nodded to himself. "I can't know why you're here-"

"I told you, I-"

"I need to know my students are safe." Blaine held eye contact, searching. "Figgins is... I just, I need you to trust me just a little. If I can't know why, at least give me that."

Kurt blinked at him. There was no way this guy was real. "I swear to you, Figgins - while he might make deals with less than savory people - didn't put anyone in danger." _Except you_, he thought, but couldn't add.

He let out a breath. "Thank you." The curiosity was back, along with the smile. "And the theme was a good idea." It was a small smile, but real, and Kurt had missed it. "But I don't know how you did it. It took me three months to get them to agree on a theme earlier this year. And they were completely uninterested in anything historical."

Kurt shrugged. "It's all in the delivery," he smirked, making a conscious choice not to be awkward and screw this up.

Blaine laughed, looked around as they stepped into the hall to make sure everyone had gone on ahead, and the brand of curiosity in his eyes was something utterly new. "Who the hell _are you_?"

"Kurt Hummel," he said simply. "Is that so hard to believe?"

Blaine shrugged, a little of that amusement and curiosity visible again in his eyes as he turned in the direction of his office. "With you? Who knows?"

* * *

The Senior Fair was right before finals, one last day of review to go before the end was in sight. Kurt was reluctant to go, but he thought he might run into Rachel, maybe apologize for the way things had ended between them. Perhaps this way he wouldn't have to hunt her down in the halls or catch her before she ran out of class to _practice_. Quinn had been the one to mention it, advising that some of it was totally drassy but a few parts were cool, if you liked that sort of thing.

She'd also asked him to be her date to prom.

"Next year I'll be dating college guys," she explained over lunch, "and now it just seems a waste of time to date a high school boy." She nodded her head towards where Puck and some of his teammates were having a hot-dog eating competition using what passed for meat. "If I go with you it might at least be fun." She grinned. "Plus you might end up being the escort of the queen."

He forced down the tendrils of dread that resurfaced at her choice of words. _I already have my own crown._ "I'd love to, it's just I wasn't really planning on -"

"Unless you wanted to ask someone yourself." She studied his face, and one corner of her mouth tilted up as her voice softened. "You could do that here, you know. God knows Brit and Santana will be sickening all night."

"Jealous bitch," Santana offered from the other end of the table, and Brittany kissed her nose.

"Is there anyone?' Quinn asked, leaning in, and he was reminded in that moment so much of Tina, of a thousand dinners where she's asked the same question.

"No," he answered this time too. "I just -"

"I don't think they'd let you ask Mr. Anderson," she smirked.

"What?" he spluttered. "I don't -"

"_Please_. I do understand," she sighed. "He's pretty hot for, you know, a teacher. But I'm pretty sure there's rules against those kinds of things."

"I'd love to go to prom with you, Quinn," he said finally, sure that his face was a hideous shade of red. "But what should our costumes be?"

"We can talk about it later, after the fair," she replied, her face cool, but she squeezed his hand briefly under the table. "It'll be fun."

There was no sign of Rachel that night when he got to the park, and when he found Quinn and her whole entourage they were arguing over which ride to go on first. He wandered off to find something to drink, feeling a little separate from the festivities around him, and passed the Ferris Wheel, looming in the night. In that moment the idea of looking down on everything, getting some perspective appealed to him. There was no line, so he hopped straight into the car.

"Riding alone?" the guy asked as he took his token. He spoke as though it was unheard of, and Kurt considered telling him that his hat was an unflattering shade of green right up until he started yelling into the night.

"Lonely ride! Single, single! Don't make the young man ride alone!"

"Stop," Kurt hissed, mortified. "I am perfectly capable of riding a Ferris Wheel without supervision, you complete -"

"I'll join him."

It was New York in June, so it wasn't cold, but there had been a breeze, and Blaine had a striped scarf wrapped around his neck, fingers fiddling with the knot and looking completely unsure about his declaration.

"Token a ride," the guy told him, and Blaine handed a coin over, then settled into the seat. The bench wasn't small, but their legs were still pressed together by necessity, and there was an awkward silence as the bar was snapped into place. When the ride lurched Blaine jumped, and their eye contact ended.

"Thanks," Kurt offered as they moved up. "I'm not sure how long that guy would have spent trying to fix me up." He stopped. "Not that this is a date. Because it's not."

"No," Blaine agreed quickly, then closed his eyes. "Okay, this was a bad idea."

"I know," Kurt rambled. "I'm so awkward, I'm sorry, I just don't know how -"

"No." Blaine touched his arm briefly. "I'm just afraid of heights. Sorry, this may be extremely embarrassing."

"You're afraid of heights," he repeated idiotically.

"Since I was little." Blaine shrugged, eyes deliberately avoiding looking down. "Pretty lame."

"I'm afraid of spiders," Kurt confided. "If that helps."

"Everyone's afraid of spiders," Blaine countered. "They're terrifying."

"I'm also a little squeamish about snakes. And I hate pickles, but that's less of a fear and more good taste."

"Like, the poisonous kind? That's pretty logical. Not a phobia. The snakes, obviously, but I guess pickles too."

"Any kind," he corrected. "I used to scream when they came on TV."

"Pickles?"

"_No_."

"When you were little?"

"Sure, let's go with that." They stopped, and Kurt could see someone stepping on far below them. "Okay, you should just not look down. Keep your eyes on me."

Blaine bit his lip. "Okay." He paused. "Are you really afraid of snakes?"

He furrowed an eyebrow, then he understood. "Yes."

"And you _are_ Kurt Hummel?"

He paused. "Yes."

"Kurt Hummel, mid-twenties, a hell of a writer who's afraid of snakes and has an irrational fear of pickles." Blaine smiled. "I know a lot more about you than I did yesterday." He huffed a laugh, and things felt easy between them for the first time that Kurt could remember. "I hope you won't be offended if I tell you there were a couple of days I thought you might be CIA and you were just the _worst spy ever_."

He crossed his arms, much less irritated than he'd like on account of the fact that _Blaine was smiling at him again_.

"Okay, so you can't tell me who you are."

"Shhh," he set a finger over Blaine's lips, possibly more out of the desire to touch than to quiet.

"There's nobody on this side," Blaine reminded him, then made the mistake of looking down. "Okay, that was a bad idea."

"Look at me."

"Yeah... okay." This look was different, still amused and curious, a little frightened, but Kurt couldn't read it, or be sure of what he thought he read. And this wasn't his assignment anyway, so he should really stop.

Well, actually, it sort of was, but he wasn't doing it. Wouldn't. But he'd enjoy this for just a few minutes anyway.

Whatever it was.

"Are you really moving to Denver?" He blurted it out, something that had been in the back of his mind since Blaine's friend had mentioned it at the club.

Blaine blinked. "What? Oh." He brushed a stray curl out of his face, and Kurt took a moment to be thankful that the hold on his gel had clearly not been a match for a long day. "I don't know. I have family there, and my Dad wants me to work in the family business, so maybe."

"Your dad is a teacher?"

He glanced away briefly. "No, he's - I wouldn't be teaching."

"Oh."

Blaine bristled. "What?"

"Nothing," he said honestly. "I just kind of seemed like... you love it. Teaching. You're really great."

And there was that smile again. "Thank you. I do."

"So why -"

"I really don't think we should be talking about this." His voice had hardened a little, his tone polite and detached, and Kurt hated it. "I am your teacher, after all."

The implication was there. _Why should I trust you when you won't even tell me who you are?_ It hurt, but he couldn't honestly say he didn't deserve it.

Another long awkward silence greeted the Ferris Wheel's next creaky rotation.

"So," Blaine asked, still the essence of civility, "Are you looking forward to prom?"

He took it. "Sure. I mean, Quinn and I haven't decided what we'll be-"

"You're going with Quinn?" he replied quickly. "That's nice."

"She asked." He considered. "I think going with the gay friend is kind of a relief for her. She doesn't have to pretend to care how many times they can burp in a minute."

Blaine's mouth was slightly ajar. "I... um, I'm pretty sure there are gay guys that do that too, let's not stereotype."

"I guess I was referring to teenage boys in general, although I certainly wasn't." They were stopped again, halfway this time, and Kurt took a moment to look out over the beautiful lights of New York. "Wow."

Blaine peeked out from behind his hand. "Okay... okay, this height isn't so bad."

"It's a long way from Ohio."

"It is." He made a frustrated noise. "I want to ask you things, but I know you won't tell me the answers."

"Curious about me?" Kurt quipped.

"Very." Blaine cleared his throat. "So, anyway, I'm sure you'll have fun hanging out with Quinn. At least you don't have to chaperone."

"It'll be nice not having the pressure of making excuses for going solo," he shrugged. "Or having to come up with some elaborate way of asking."

"I don't know, that was always my favorite part of Prom season... watching the elaborate schemes people came up with."

Kurt wrinkled his nose. "It's all a bit public and melodramatic, isn't it?"

Blaine shrugged. "I think it's nice, when it's appropriate. It can be quiet, or not, but something that says... 'I'm proud to be with you, to ask you to go with me,'" He shook his head. "It's stupid. Ignore me."

"No, I get it. I guess I've just never thought about it that way." Kurt lifted a shoulder. "Not that it's really come up."

"I wouldn't worry," Blaine said, and there was definitely an edge to his voice as he patted Kurt's shoulder. "I'm sure that when you're my age there'll be guys lined up around the block for you."

He was torn between a blush (which was happening anyway), and a glare at the age dig. "I'm sure you have to say that because you're my teacher, boost my self-confidence and all."

"Actually," Blaine corrected, "I really _shouldn't_ say that because I'm your teacher."

Kurt rolled his eyes, and the Ferris Wheel came to a stop safely on the ground. Blaine stepped quickly out and looked about ready to kiss the ground.

"Thanks again," Kurt offered, mindful of the people around them.

"No problem," Blaine smiled easily. "It was nice talking to you, Kurt."

"You too."

They stepped away from the newly formed line (apparently they'd started a trend) and Coach Bieste waved Blaine over from one of the booths. He waved back and turned apologetically.

"I'd better go," he said. "One more thing... have you talked to Rachel?"

"She's not talking to me. Why?"

"I guess that makes sense." He ran a hand through his hair, which was a lost cause and completely glorious. "It was just nice to see her connecting with someone." He lowered his voice. "Even if that someone wasn't real."

"I am -" Blaine was already backing away, though, waving one last time, and he didn't really have the time to recover before _oof_ -

"Kurt!" Brittany squealed, shoving cotton candy in his face as she jumped on him. "I found magical unicorn food, and you have to try some!"

He pinched off a piece of cotton candy, let her link arms with him as they walked towards where Santana was trying to win her a teddy bear, and only looked over his shoulder once to see Blaine bounding over to a few members of the staff, laughing at something one of them said, fiddling with his scarf again and glancing back, just once, looking immediately away when he saw Kurt still there.


	5. Chapter 5

He was leaving for school the next day when he got a text from Quinn. Apparently the Prom Decorations committee needed last minute help after school, and he should bring paint clothes. It was phrased less like a request and more like a benevolent service.

He was reasonably certain he didn't own paint clothes, but he found a t-shirt and some sweats he'd used working on cars in his dad's shop (he stayed away from his NYU ones, no need to invite questions).

It turned out that Quinn had marshalled her forces well. The artists in the group were assigned the most difficult signs, while Puck and several of his lackeys were given strict orders to paint over the penciled in letters.

Kurt filled in where he was needed to start with, and soon found himself in the corner, working on a poster with Blaine. Blaine, who looked not at all distracting in his old jeans and threadbare t-shirt (OSU, just tight enough to suggest muscles without verging on inappropriate. The same could not be said for Kurt's thoughts).

He was certain it would be awkward again, he'd mess it up somehow, but it turned out that Blaine's boundless enthusiasm extended to any number of topics. They started simple, Blaine giving him a very pointed smile as he asked whether Kurt was looking forward to graduation, and they were soon deep in a conversation on the subject of that year's Tony awards. People had started to migrate away from them pretty quickly once the argument over Best Actress in a musical began.

"She was robbed," Blaine insisted, his paintbrush dripping onto the tarps that had been set up in the quad.

"How can you say that?!" Kurt flicked his own brush into the blue pot in agitation. "Did you even see the performance? It was vocally acceptable, but everyone who saw it admitted that she shouldn't have been nominated in that category."

Blaine lifted his brush to point his index finger. "That's not true, and if you take into consideration her first snub three years ago -"

"Three years ago is three years ago, it doesn't make any -"

"The whole point is to reward achievement, and anyway, her performance got rave reviews from critics, I don't know what you're -" Blaine's brush waved as he talked and Kurt felt a few drops of yellow paint - the sun in the sunset - spray his shoulder.

"Did you really just flick paint at me!?"

"Oops," said Blaine, the little hint of smugness that overwhelmed his surprise rendering his apology completely unconvincing.

Kurt leaned forward over the poster, watched Blaine's eyes dart for just half a second down to his lips, and steadied his heartbeat as he painted a stripe of Blue across Blaine's nose.

He looked stunned for a moment, and Kurt had a brief flash of panic that maybe zero tolerance extended to attacking teachers with paintbrushes, but he soon felt a stripe of yellow decorate his own cheek. Although they called a truce shortly after for the sake of the posters, returned to work and talked instead about other things - a book, the best bagel places nearby, the relative merits of their respective coffee orders - he clung to the images: Blaine laughing in the sunlight, a blue streak across his nose as he exchanged a look with Kurt while he helped Puck fix a mistake, that half a second when his gaze had dipped, their faces less than a foot apart.

_I could be ridiculously in love with you,_ he thought as he watched Blaine initial the corner of the poster in tiny script, claiming, with great solemnity, that it was for posterity.

What he hadn't noticed, too wrapped up in the comfort of his and Blaine's new sort-of-understanding, was Quinn watching from the other side of the quad, seeing far more than anyone else around them would.

* * *

He hummed a song as he drove home that night, embraced his ridiculous teenage mood and set the original broadway cast recording on his ipod as he put moisturizer on before bed.

_You'd be so easy to love/ so easy to idolize all others above...so try to see/your future with me...'Cause you'd be, oh, so easy to love... _

* * *

The last review sessions were tortuous, the second semester seniors already ready to get the hell out and begin their summer. Most teachers tried to come up with creative ways to review (another thing that Kurt had never experienced before), and Blaine was no exception. His students entered class on the day before finals to find the chairs divided into four sections and Blaine sitting behind his desk in a suit, question cards sitting in front of him and a scoreboard on the whiteboard.

Everyone grumbled until he revealed the prizes: the team whose members were able to answer the most questions correctly got to choose what he ordered to eat for the party on the last day (no one seemed to realize that as everyone was talking about pizza the point was moot, but Kurt didn't feel the need to bring that up). There was nothing like teenagers who scented competition.

Rachel was captaining one of the four teams, and Kurt found himself smiling at the way she marshalled her troops. The Streisand references were probably lost on most of her peers, but they were making good progress and she seemed to be managing not be overwhelmingly overbearing (although she made a point of declaring loudly that she'd be attending prom in a group with some of her drama and choir comrades, because unlike _some_ she didn't feel the need to seek approval from her peers).

"Kurt?" Blaine said with a tone that indicated he'd probably been trying to get his attention for some time. "Are you ready for your question?"

The group had worked down the line to him and he nodded. "Uh... yeah. Sorry. I'll take _As You Like It_ for thirty points. Thanks."

Blaine flipped to the appropriately color-coded cards. "_As You Like It_ for thirty," he confirmed. "Give a brief insight into an aspect of Rosalind's relationship with Orlando once she had entered the forest."

A portion of the class looked on expectantly, while the other tried to surreptitiously text under their desk or pass notes to their neighbors. Kurt stand up straight, swallowed, and looked Blaine in the eye with more courage than he knew he had.

"She's trapped," he said through a breath. "She's gotten to know him in disguise, and now she doesn't know if she can be just herself with him. She doesn't know what his feelings are, about the real her, what they will be if she reveals who she truly is. She doesn't know what to do, or what he'll think if he knows everything that she is."

There was a silence, a slight pause before Blaine broke eye contact, eyes a confusion of brown and gold. "Thank you," he said simply. "Next, Mandy..."

Kurt sat back in his chair and concentrated on not blushing, letting out another long, slow breath and feeling just a little brave.

* * *

He remembered getting ready for his own junior prom, working up the courage to fly solo with a few of his friends from choir. He'd spent _so long_ on his clothes, his homage to the royal wedding perfectly tailored and pressed. Accepting that romance in high school was not something he'd ever know, he'd walked into that gaudily decorated gymnasium with his head held high, dreaming of just one great night in Lima before he started his new life, sometimes to him his real life, in New York. The week before had been a welcome change; the jocks were uncharacteristically in control of their elbows, and the hisses had been kept to a minimum. One of the cheerleaders - the quieter ones - had even asked him casually in class what he was wearing. Although he hadn't allowed himself to get his hopes up, secretly he'd thought that maybe this was it. Maybe his senior year wouldn't be filled with locker shoves and hisses in the corridors. Maybe West Lima was evolving.

When his junior class had elected him prom queen that night, a sea of malicious laughing faces as he tried to breathe through his coronation and give them something to remember ("Kate Middleton eat your heart out!") the only thing that had stopped him from crumbling was the knowledge that he would get out. That maybe someday there would be someone with him, holding his hand and loving him for exactly the person he was and would be.

Someday, someone - the right someone - would kiss him and it would be _everything _. It may not be his only first kiss, but he was going to make his kisses _count_.

But for right now... he _had_ gotten out, but the idea of revisiting that humiliation and level of devastation, no matter how strong it had made him, was an unwelcome prospect. He'd managed not to think about it, pushed it to the back of his mind until now. He was standing in front of his bedroom mirror fully dressed and unable to move.

Laughing faces, cruel in their contempt and all the worse in the knowledge that they'd gone to so much effort, actually coordinated this to try to rip him apart.

He'd gone home after the coronation and stayed in his room for days, unable to keep his chin held high now that he could breathe.

He'd gone back to school, survived his senior year, had his family to help him through and make sure he knew they were there for him, even if no one else was.

He'd done it. He could do this. He could do this and hope that some kind of story might fall into his lap, because after this there were only a few days of school left.

He pulled himself together - he had a great deal of practice - and went to meet Quinn.

She opened the front door, and there was his Doris Day.

He'd loved the idea when she'd suggested it, let out a shocked bark of laughter at the appropriateness but confessed it wasn't what he'd expected. Quinn had smiled, said that her grandmother loved old movies and she'd spent weekends as a child wanting to be every hollywood starlet from the golden age of cinema. Kurt didn't say it, but he privately thought that in another world, where social status wasn't the driving factor for every teen trying to get by (and making some of them into people whose actions were incomprehensible and, in some cases, unforgivable), she and Rachel might have realized they had a lot in common.

And now she was resplendent in her long beaded dress, the slit to her thigh and the blue beading bringing out her eyes. The feathers on the skirt swished charmingly when she walked, and although she did make quite the face at Kurt's transportation (and probably wished she'd offered to drive) she didn't say anything.

They met Santana and Brittany in the parking lot, where Santana - about four inches taller thanks to her boots - was complaining that her metal Xena breastplate, though hot as hell and the most awesome idea ever, was "seriously diminishing the power of her rack".

Brittany had added fairy wings to her Amazon-Queen-Gabrielle ensemble, and was wearing a heart sticker on her cheek as well as silver glitter ballet flats. Her skirt was a little flowier, she explained, so that she and Santana could fly.

Puck joined them, a girl Kurt didn't know on his arm, and he was distracted from the introductions by the figure behind them.

"...Finn? What are you doing here?"

Finn shrugged, his slightly-too-small-tux a little wrinkled. "Puck invited me. I mean, Kate's date cancelled last minute, I guess, and we were hanging out -"

"No homo," Puck assured them, and Santana kicked him in the shin.

"Awesome suit, dude," Finn offered. "I'm James Bond. Who're you guys?"

"Rock Hudson and Doris Day." He reached to check the swoop in his hair, fingered the lapel of his dark grey suit.

"Are they from that Bravo show?"

He huffed a "no" and offered his arm to Quinn.

"Dude, I didn't mean -" Puck gasped at Santana, and they made their way into the gym.

* * *

He was keeping his eyes out for _something_, a secret society or something, he had no idea at this point and was getting a little desperate, but he made the effort to socialize and smile, elbowing Finn in the ribs whenever it looked like he was forgetting that Kurt had a goddamn secret identity to keep up.

He danced with Quinn and Brittany, who taught him to salsa, then with the group as a whole, in the center of the dance floor, and when Quinn indicated she was going to get a glass of punch (and waved off the three guys who offered to get it for her) Kurt followed.

"So," he asked a few minutes later, seated at one of the tables, "what are you doing next year?"

Quinn looked down, then smiled. "I actually just heard. I... I got off the waitlist for Yale."

He blinked. "What?"

"I didn't... I didn't tell anyone, because I think everyone thinks I'm just some... idiot who got knocked up." Her voice was soft. "But I had a four point oh GPA, and I didn't think I'd get off the list, or even get in -"

"That's great!" he gasped, taking her hand. "Oh my god, I'm so happy for you!"

"Thanks," she said simply, and then the lights dimmed and Blaine was center stage, envelopes in hand.

"Alright," he announced. "It's time to announce the winners selected from this year's prom court."

Quinn squeezed his hand, left to go stand with Santana and Brittany onstage, and Puck, whooped as he jumped up to join the prom king nominees. As he did, Kurt spotted Rachel at the front of the crowd, rolling her eyes under her crown. Her Queen Elizabeth costume was perfect, even if the ruffle was entirely too much and the hoop skirt seemed to be irritating those around her.

"This year's prom king..." Blaine opened the envelope with a sheepish smile, almost dropping the card, "is Noah Puckerman."

There was a round of loud applause, and Blaine shushed them. "Wait a second guys, let's hear the other one first. McKinley High's Prom Queen is... Quinn Fabray!"

Quinn smiled demurely, waved to the crowd and accepted her tiara with the grace of a girl who had never expected anything less. He could hear Santana grousing from across the room.

Neither of the winners made a speech, but they danced together to the chosen song until the floor started to fill. Kurt cut in.

"Thanks," she offered once they were dancing. "It's not like we're not friends, it's just..."

"A little awkward. I get it."

He noticed Blaine over her shoulder as the music changed to a faster beat, chatting with a couple dressed as Adam and Eve over by the punchbowl and watching Puck convincing Ms. Han to do the twist. Brittany was teaching Coach Bieste what looked like a jitterbug. Quinn rested her head on his shoulder and it was nice, swaying for a few minutes, having what he supposed approximated a normal school dance.

Someone bumped his shoulder; they'd moved to almost the edge of the dance floor. "Oh, sorry," Blaine said, eyes wide with apology (and looking _amazing_ in his classic grey suit). "I was just looking for Ms. Pillsbury. I didn't mean to -"

"I'm going to freshen my lipstick," Quinn said, melting away into the crowd. "I'll be back later."

There was a long, awkward silence, and Blaine made no move to continue his search. "So, you having fun?" he half-shouted over the music.

"Yeah! Looks like people really got into the spirit!" The song changed again halfway through his sentence so it just looked like he was shouting.

Blaine laughed. "Quinn's dress is gorgeous. _Love Me or Leave Me_ is one of my favorites, but I didn't get it until I really looked at the hair. The daisy was a nice touch. " He leaned in. "Your Rock isn't bad either."

If he were Puck, Mercedes, or even anyone but himself he might have had something funny, or at least lewd, to say to that. Instead he settled for "Thanks. You look nice yourself."

Blaine looked around. "If circumstances were different I might have asked you to dance."

Kurt looked right back, felt brave again, deliberately didn't think about the people at the newspaper offices probably watching with popcorn. "If circumstances were different I might have said yes."

They'd moved towards the wall, and Blaine bit his lip, leaned a little against it. "I need to talk to you."

And looking at him, a familiar confusion in his eyes obviously underlined by trust - for reasons Kurt would never understand - Kurt knew what he had to do. "I need to talk to you about something too."

Blaine nodded, a smile blooming on his face, and Kurt would never know what he was about to say because it was at that precise moment that he saw Puck and Rachel dancing awkwardly about ten feet away. He almost smiled, but then he saw Santana behind them, flanked by Brittany and a disinterested looking Quinn, the open can of dog food in her hand as Puck kept Rachel carefully looking the other way. ("God, look at her," Santana had said in the hallway more than once as Rachel passed by. "I swear to god that sweater makes me want to hurl. She looks like a trussed up poodle whose owner has a unicorn fetish."). Puck made eye contact with Santana and nodded, stretched their arms out like he was about to spin her, and Santana took a deliberate step forward -

_No._

He got there in time to knock it out of her hand, a few meaty chunks settling on her legs and shoes.

"What the fuck, Hummel!?" she shrieked, and the entire room turned to look. Someone must have signaled to the DJ, because the music cut out a few seconds later.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?!" he yelled, and he wasn't entirely sure where all this had come from (no, that's not true, he knew exactly where), but he was done. It was over. He was sick of bullies, teenage and Sue Sylvester alike.

Puck stepped around the mess. "Dude, chill."

"No," he snapped, and if he weren't so angry he knew there would be tears in his eyes. "I am twenty five goddamn years old, and I do not have to stand by and watch this shit." He saw that hit the crowd, heard a small gasp come from a few. "I'm an undercover reporter from the _Sentinel_ and I am _so sick_ of pretending that _this_ is okay." He pulled the pin off his lapel, crushed it under his foot. "I've been beating my brains out trying to impress you, the self proclaimed rulers of this little kingdom, god, my brother came into the school and _told you_ to like me." He waved in Finn's direction, where his step brother was laughing awkwardly. "And let me tell you something. You, Santana, and Puck, and Quinn, and anyone else who feels like being liked in high school should come at the expense of being a _human being_. She -" He turned to Rachel, who had her head held high even though she looked close to tears (and not a little shocked). "- was the only student here who reached out to me, made me feel welcome. She looked after me, and she's three times the person any of you are, so maybe you should be taking _notes_. Animal sweaters or not, this girl is unbelievable. And tearing her down, ruining her night so that you can laugh, and point, and feel like you're important - that doesn't make you clever, and it doesn't make you special. All that does is make you bitter, hateful, and childish. And god, I hope you all realize that sooner rather than later." He felt the tears coming, like the breath had been stolen from his body, clenched his hands into fists and headed for the door, the clamor of the room too much for him.

He ran into Sam outside; he was waving his phone and very obviously freaking out.

"What the hell, Kurt? I'm getting calls from everyone, they were watching the feed at the office until _that_, what were you thinking?!"

"I -"

"Please tell me you got something big on Anderson..."

He brought his hands to his temples, almost screamed as he spun -

To find Blaine standing right behind him, stepping out of the shadow of the building.

"Well," he said, shock obvious on his face and his voice harder than Kurt had ever heard it, "answer him. Did you get something on Anderson?"

"No," Kurt started, reaching out a hand, "it isn't -"

"I think it's best if you stay over there." He kept his eyes on a point somewhere on Kurt's forehead.

"I think I'm - uh - gonna head back out, man." Sam waved his phone and backed away. "Uh... call me if you need me."

"I guess that answers a lot of questions," Blaine laughed bitterly. "Like why you'd never tell me why you were here. I should probably go call a lawyer."

"You don't understand," he tried, "I wasn't -"

"I _trusted you_, and you were... what? Using that to twist everything into...?" The hurt was there now, visible and like a knife to the heart. Blaine took a hand out of his pockets and smoothed his hair in agitation. "God, Kurt, you had my school believing you were doing something important - how good a liar _are you_?"

"I wasn't lying -"

"Do _not_. Every single word you told me was a lie, every conversation we had, every moment, and I know nothing about you except you were here to _ruin my life_."

Kurt moved forward, heart racing. "No, I mean, I was never going to do it, I couldn't do that to you, I was just buying time so I could -"

He took a step away. "I don't know you, Kurt. All I know is that you lie for a living and that you more than lied to me."

Blaine was leaving. Blaine was leaving, and he'd never get another chance at this, never see him again. "I could - I can fix this, and then maybe we can talk, you can get to know me, the real me, it's not like you think, I promise I'll -"

Blaine closed his eyes, his jaw hardened and when they opened they were clear. "Don't." The disappointment and hurt was almost worse than the anger. "I can't trust you, and now when I look at you I -" He shook his head. "I can't, I have to go."

And Kurt was left there alone, outside in the semi-darkness, wishing he'd been just a little smarter, or braver, or wiser... That he had a plan, some way to turn back time, anything that could possibly make this right.

* * *

He started the next morning.

He was in Sue's office, being ripped to shreds, and something in him snapped again. This time when he stormed out he made sure to make himself clear: she would get her goddamn story.

* * *

Feature Article in _The New York Sentinel_:

What I Learned During my High-School Vacation (The More Things Change...)  
by Kurt Hummel, staff reporter

I've been told that a writer is supposed to write what they know. As skeptical as I am, I figure maybe that's the best way to start here. My name is Kurt Hummel, I am twenty-five years old, and I have never really been kissed.

I don't want you to misunderstand me, this isn't the point of my story. It's a coda, a footnote that we'll return to later, a tiny facet of who I am.

I grew up in a small homophobic town in the Midwest; with the support of my father and family, I got out of there as soon as I possibly could. My memories of those four years center primarily around being pushed into lockers, having names hissed at me in the halls, and teachers who chose either not to see or not to act against the systematic bullying occurring right under their noses. I was elected prom queen at my school, in a misguided attempt to put me in my place.

That had lasting effects, which is why my recent trip back to high school was a shock and a confirmation all at once. The more things change (and we hope for the better) the more they stay the same.

Being gay may not get you ostracised in the more enlightened high schools nowadays, and many schools actively enforce the laws against bullying based on sexual orientation. But that doesn't mean there aren't other expectations to be met, that there aren't teenagers pushing and tearing down those lower than them on the social pyramid for the sake of staying on top. There are people who can't be themselves, who aren't supposed to be themselves but are brave enough to take the risk anyway, and people who have no trouble letting everyone know that they're not changing for anything (be that for the better or worse).

I have never been ashamed of who I am, not since I realized that it wasn't wrong. But I do have regrets over things that I have done, chances that I didn't take or let slip by. My biggest regret is that in learning about high school all over again, learning about myself in the process, a teacher - a friend to me in the most unexpected of ways, and the kind of educator who is happy to go above and beyond to help his students thrive - was hurt. To him I would like to say this, though the words seem inadequate: I am so very sorry. And writing this article cannot possibly hope to make things completely right, but I hope that it serves as a step to show how much he means to me, and what he could mean to me: a great deal, and everything.

And so we return to my footnote. In the spirit of honesty, of wearing my heart on my sleeve and finding a way of showing him how proud I would be to be with him, I propose this: This Friday, after graduation, several of the McKinley High Titans are playing on their home field in the state all-star game. I am reliably informed by our resident sports reporter that it's for an extremely large trophy, and the proceeds benefit several worthy charities. It marks the end of the school year, the beginning of next chapter of the senior students' lives, and with that in mind I would like to start a new chapter of my own.

I would like to ask this man, this friend, if he believes that he will ever see me as I see him. If he can forgive the past (I do not ask him to forget it), and he believes that we shouldn't say goodbye, I ask him to meet me there. I will be waiting in the center of the field for the five minutes before the game begins, and if he is willing, I would like him to be my first kiss.

I think - hope - that kiss could be our first of many.

* * *

_A note attached to a copy of the New York Sentinel, delivered to B. Anderson:_  
_  
My name is Kurt Hummel. I'm twenty-five years old and I have never kissed anyone. I'm afraid of snakes, I hate pickles, and I desperately need you to believe that every word of this article is true. _

* * *

_And now_...

An unbroken wall of noise.

That's the best phrase Kurt can think of, the one running around in his tired brain as he steps into the stadium. It's packed, and he'd be able to pass that off as the crowds out to support the Titans for the championship were it not for the posters. He can only see the ones nearest him, but there's definitely a "Kiss for Kurt!" and "I'll Kiss U!" nearby.

It's surreal, is what it is, absolutely insane, and if you'd told Kurt Hummel a few short months ago that this is where he'd be... well, he would have dismissed you as just another crazy person in a city full of very crazy people.

He doesn't know if this was the right way to do this, and he honestly has no idea whether it will work, but it's something - something to show someone that matters how he truly feels, who he truly is when it's just him and his awkward, stumbling attempts to make things right (_and oh god, there's so many_ people, _should this be a private thing, I thought it was right, in its own way, a gesture, but -_)...

These people are all here to see him possibly be humiliated - probably, actually, because this once again seems like an insane idea, and what was he thinking? He should stop this - go home, eat a cheesecake (or three), and try not to look at all the photos from the afternoon of prom decorations, where Blaine had paint in his hair. Blaine probably didn't even read the _Sentinel_ anyway. He threw away the note, and probably moved to Colorado and met a hot ski instructor named Jonathan or Mattieu, whose abs had all those lines between them, and -

"Not the fireman again," Rachel sighs from next to him. When they had talked shortly after the prom, she had praised his dramatic flair, if not his honest execution, and had insisted on being involved.

He leans into her a little and shakes his head.

Rachel clucks her tongue imperiously. "Mr. Anderson will come, Kurt. Your love is true, and this is such a brave, romantic gesture. And on the bright side, if he doesn't you'll have a painful story of heartbreak to fuel your next creative endeavor, much like my - ooh, would you be interested in a collabor -"

"I think what Rachel is trying to say," Mercedes interrupts incredulously, side-eyeing her, "is that this is such a brave thing to do, and if Blaine doesn't - well, then it's his loss. All these people are with you. Look at them, Kurt. Your story mattered to them. They feel like they know you."

Rachel opens her mouth, then closes it. "Yes," she says after a pause. "That's what I meant." She reaches forward and squeezes his hand. "You're helping all these people believe in love, Kurt. That's amazing."

Kurt manages to squeeze back. "Why couldn't I just call him fifty times like a normal person?"

"Because you're special," Rachel replies, propelling him towards the goal line. "I should know. It's time. Go."

He lets himself be prodded, takes the microphone that Mercedes offers him and grimaces at Coach Bieste as she wishes him luck. If anything the cheering, which had started in earnest when he appeared, is dialed up another notch as he crosses the grass.

He takes a deep breath, glances over at Rachel and Mercedes, who are making their way into the stands.

"Can I have five minutes on the clock, please?" His voice sounds a little squeaky to his ears, and he winces at the feedback from the microphone.

And then he has to stand there.

Waiting.

He should have thought this through. It is a gesture, yes, a big deal for him to put himself out there - literally - but it in some ways doesn't feel like enough. And now all he has is the roar of the stadium and the thoughts that have been circling in his own head. What if this isn't what he thinks - hopes - it will be? What if Blaine is still too hurt, can't see him as more than the person who lied, it's just too weird, or he was just curious about Kurt's job and he doesn't care (_that face that night, that wasn't the face of someone who didn't care_), or he's decided to leave, to take his Dad's job in Colorado?

_What if I made the whole thing up in my head, and this isn't what he wants?_

The clock is ticking down, red numbers disappearing like they're unaware that Kurt's heartbeat seems to depend on them, several members of the team milling around near the stands. He has spent the last week calling in favors from everyone he knows, trying to make this happen, make his message clear.

For him the job had never been - was never going to be - Blaine. Blaine might be the best thing that has ever happened to him. And he wants to take that chance.

Blaine is _worth_ that chance.

And that's what he tells himself as the clock reaches one minute and the cheering dims. Everyone is realizing that this might not become the fairytale ending they hope for, the short romantic piece at the end of the nightly news (he's going to be standing here alone on camera, and will probably be on YouTube within a day. Great.).

Thirty seconds. He actually had thought maybe Blaine might be here.

Twenty seconds. _Why would he?_ Kurt has done nothing but lie to him - why should Blaine trust him or want to know him?

Ten seconds. But he never lied about the things that mattered. There were moments. Those moments were - are - real. For both of them.

Five seconds. Just not real enough.

Four. The crowd's counting down.

Three. Don't they know how this feels?

Two. Blaine. Oh, god, he's lost Blaine.

One.

Zero.

His fingers loosen around the microphone, and it falls to the ground with an amplified thump. Rachel will kill him. She bedazzled it herself.

He's going to move. He'll have to move, and he'll do that soon, when he feels a little less numb. Or maybe it isn't numbness, he doesn't really know.

He knows intellectually that life will go on, that this isn't the end of the world, but that doesn't change the fact that it feels like it is. God, he's such an _idiot_.

And - they're cheering again, part of the stands, penetrating the mumbling that replaced the countdown. Why are they cheering? Don't they have any respect for -

A figure is jogging down the stadium steps, so far away until finally Kurt can focus on it - him.

A figure in a long-sleeved green sweater, hair curly and messy, and when he gets to the barrier he finally looks up to meet Kurt's eyes, and he's frozen again, but this time he doesn't feel cold.

Blaine's there, and Blaine's on the field, and Blaine's coming towards him.

Blaine came to him.

He's close now, and Kurt's remembering that he and Blaine might be kissing.

Blaine and -

What if he's bad at it? What if -

And then Blaine is taking one last step towards him, inviting Kurt to close the gap, and smiling a little nervously, and -

Oh.

_There you are._


	6. Chapter 6

It isn't like the movies, not really. There isn't a haze, and the crowd is still firmly in his ears. But he finds he doesn't care much with Blaine's arms around him, soft lips on his and one of his hands on Blaine's hip. It feels like music sounds, like when a sentence comes out just exactly right, like cheesecake and happiness and comfort all rolled into one. It feels like a promise. After a few moments - or lifetimes, he's sort of lost perspective - he pulls back a little to breathe, leans their foreheads together.

"You take my breath away."

Blaine's smile is real, a little shy. "This is all a little..."

"Big?" Kurt suggests. "I went for the big gesture."

"I noticed. Sorry I was late."

"I'm glad you decided to come." He sees the football team edging closer, trying to work their way onto the field. Number eight (Puck) is yelling something he's sure is utterly charming. "Maybe we should continue this conversation somewhere more private."

Blaine closes his eyes briefly. "That might be a good idea - I - I'm here, but there's some things we need to -"

"I know. I promise, I know." He offers his hand. "Hi, I'm Kurt Hummel. Just me this time."

The corners of Blaine's mouth tilt up. He rolls the name around on his tongue like it means something new. "Kurt…" A hand moves to Kurt's cheek and the other combs through his hair. "There you are," Blaine murmurs quietly, "I've been looking for you forever."

When Coach Bieste blows her whistle at them, Kurt takes his hand, pulls him off the field, and knows it isn't the kiss that's making him feel different, feel like so much is possible and his future is so much brighter.

It's Blaine.

* * *

_Epilogue_:

It isn't like it's all smooth sailing from there.

They talk about it a lot, fight about it a little, and eventually unknot all the he-saids and she-saids and I-really-didn'ts of the whole thing.

Blaine tells him about his research, about the transition from realizing that Kurt wasn't a student to allowing himself to see him in a different way. He tells him about asking Wes' sister to dig out her yearbook, later frustrations at the mystery and the feelings he found developing. He tells him about the hurt after prom, about almost telling his father he would move to Denver just in the hopes of escaping this whole thing, the sadness that he'd thought might swallow him whole.

And then he tells him about coming back. About reading the article and believing they were, and still are, worth the chance.

Kurt tells him everything too - about Sue, his assignments, about Figgins and what he knew had been on the line. The actual safeguard that Blaine himself had put in place by telling Figgins that he knew, and his own personal vow to protect Blaine at all costs.

Life moves on.

They go out to dinner on their first official date and Kurt takes great delight in opening doors, picking up the check at the end of the night. Blaine teases him for it, but he's the exact same way later that week when they walk through the park hand in hand, pause on Kurt's stoop to say goodnight. On their fifteenth (by Kurt's count) date, they each say "I love you" and god, do they mean it.

It takes them awhile to perfect the answer to the question "so how did you two meet?"; the first time they're asked Kurt answers "he was my English teacher," which leads to a whole host of awkward looks and a three minute monologue as Kurt tried to backtrack and explain. They work it out, though. It's worth it.

Kurt gets his source and his article is printed. The people running the LGBTQ shelters in question are investigated and eventually charged, and the plight of the victims brought to the public eye. Fighting with Sue about every assignment eventually exhausts him, so when - a long while later and with a few more wins under his belt - he manages to get an offer to move to a slightly not-quite-as-well-paid job at _The New York Times_, he talks it over with Blaine. He takes it.

Blaine takes the show choir to Nationals in Las Vegas the following year. They place eighth, and he calls Kurt from the hotel to gush over how amazingly they did, already talking about a fall musical next year, song selections for regionals after. He changes his syllabus every year, tries to work in new books and material, but he keeps _As You Like It_ in there and smiles every time a student writes their paper about gender roles.

There are stupid fights, and while both of them try to stay away from it, Blaine does bring it up once (_how do I know this entire relationship isn't built on a lie?_). After that night and the next few days of missed calls and misery (it's a two cheesecake week), they find their way back to each other, promise to never fight again, never to use their past to hurt each other like that again, to love each other always.

Two out of three isn't bad.

A year and a half after they first kiss they find an apartment, and Blaine has a shelf in the closet dedicated to just his ties. Burt and Carole come to dinner before the boxes are unpacked and Finn shows up with a pizza and crowing over McKinley's latest football triumph, the proudest assistant coach in the world. Kurt looks around at the kitchen table and it feels like home.

Six months later he buys a ring.

Four months after that Blaine decides to go back and finish his masters degree, and money is tight for a long while, the wedding on hold while they scrape together what they can, saving as much as they can put aside for their future.

The day after Blaine graduates they set a date, and Mercedes and Rachel argue every single time they have a fitting. He thinks Tina just enjoys watching, her baby bump growing bigger every time the seamstress makes an alteration. He holds Blaine's hand when they tell both sets of parents, accepts the Anderson's cool congratulations with grace (it's really more than they'd expected), lets Finn almost knock them both over when he hears and squeezes the life out of each of them.

It's a warm day in September when they stand in front of their families and promise each other the rest of their lives.

That kiss, and every one after it, feel just as beautiful, just as important as their first.

Every kiss _matters_.

There's something about that - a _lot_, really - Kurt finds secretly thrilling. At first it's because it turns out that kissing is fantastic - and while he's totally been missing out, Blaine proves himself willing to help make up for any lost time - but as time goes on he realizes all the things that a kiss can mean. A quick kiss goodbye in the morning, as one of them leaves for work, long goodnight kisses at the end of a date, casual pecks when Blaine says something cute, or Kurt rambles.

And there's things besides kisses too; Blaine's hand on his hip as they debate the best kind of mango in the grocery store, ruffling his boyfriend's - _husband's_ - hair when they're sitting on the couch, Blaine working his way through a stack of papers on _Lord of the Flies_. There's sex, everything that entails, sheets and sweat, laughter and the light in Blaine's eyes. There's a sense of family, of knowing that Blaine arguing with Finn over football stats at Thanksgiving, talking Carole through her co-worker drama and helping his Dad with the dishes, is, even if there isn't such a thing as meant to be, at least utterly, wonderfully _right_.

There's him, and there's Blaine, and what they are together.

And that's everything.


End file.
